Witch Hunt
by angelicka
Summary: It is ten years after the final battle of Hogwarts. Some things have changed: Severus Snape has survived and is back to teaching Potions, Professor McGonagall is the headmistress, Ron and Harry are now Aurors. But someone has been missing-presumed-dead for ten years. The quest to find her takes Snape to the Muggle world where he finds more than expected.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Please note that this is a finished piece which was written for the SS/HG exchange a few years ago. I always intended to revise it and post but never got round to it. The revision has begun. My thanks and appreciation for their help, support, patience, beta work and friendship go to Nagandsev and Memory. A big thank you also goes to Snitchette for her French translations and for reminding me that book-Snape's first-year Potions speech differs from movie-Snape's (how could I have forgotten?). And thank you, as always, to JK Rowling for her wonderful characters and for allowing us to play with her stuff._

 _ **Chapter One**_

Harry Potter looked into the Pensieve and prepared to dive, face first, into its shimmering embrace.

The wizard beside him let out an impatient sigh, and looked down at the younger man with an expression of deep disdain. 'You don't usually require permission to enter a private memory, Potter. Get on with it, or we'll be here all day.'

'Yes, do hurry up, Harry,' agreed Professor McGonagall from her place just behind him. 'There are five of us to take a turn yet, and we are all quite anxious to see for ourselves.'

Harry obliged the general sentiment by taking a deep breath and plunging his head into the familiar, opaque depths of the ancient stone vessel. The memory he was about to view had been generously donated – with some encouragement from Severus Snape – by Mundungus Fletcher.

Harry felt a semblance of solid ground form beneath him as the vague confusion of the memory-mist cleared to reveal a busy train station. The platform was unfamiliar to him as he looked up and down it to locate their reluctant accomplice. After a moment, he caught sight of the familiar, dishevelled form of Mundungus, leaning against a wall just behind the group of Muggles who were waiting for their early morning train. No-one seemed to notice the devious old wizard, despite the fact that he was dressed with no concession, whatsoever, to his environment. His wizarding robes had seen far better days, and he had the appearance of a man for whom bathing had long since lost its appeal. Harry saw that Mundungus, who had been idly playing _heads or tails_ with a knut, suddenly looked up from his activity, and directed his attention towards the far end of the station. The incorporeal sound of the public-address system had just announced that the train to Preston was about to arrive, triggering a general feeling of anticipation and a jostling of position from the waiting throng, who prepared to make a dash for the doors as soon as the train arrived.

Harry followed Mundungus' gaze; it fell upon the train, and Harry watched with him as it came to a shrieking stop. The doors opened and out tumbled the morning workers like swarming army ants. The task of spotting one yearned-for face amidst the chaos of metropolitan commuting seemed impossible. He could find a snitch amidst fourteen enthusiastic witches and wizards on a stormy evening, yet finding a lost friend meant so much more than winning at Quidditch. They had been disappointed so many times before that he felt another blow might be too much. This felt like their last chance to find her, and as it was their final lead, so much depended on the success of this slim possibility. It was with great excitement and relief, therefore, that Harry spotted the familiar figure of Hermione Granger as she embarked from the train—large bag draped across her shoulders, head held high, and face firmly set to crowd navigation.

He only caught a glimpse as the mob took her off towards the exit staircase, but it was enough to see that she had changed in ten years. She looked self-assured, groomed, mature, and alarmingly Muggle. He noticed her stylish Muggle hairdo, fastened back off her face and the small gadget she held in her hand. Harry recognised it as a mobile phone and knew where Arthur Weasley's attention would be focused when it was his turn for a viewing. Harry was well aware that her existence in this memory did not reach beyond the parameters of Mundungus' scrutiny, yet he couldn't stop himself from trying to follow in her direction. He got no further than two steps forward, however, when he felt himself being forcibly pulled from the memory, as Snape's long arm deemed his turn to be at an end.

Harry gasped and turned to face the expectant faces before him.

'Well?' asked Snape. 'Is it her?'

Harry nodded slowly, his shining eyes alone conveying the depths of his elation. The reaction from his small audience was immediate and no less joyous. Ron let out a whoop, Molly's hands flew to her face to support the ear-splitting grin, and Ginny embraced first her father and then Harry. Professor McGonagall simply repeated the words, 'We've found her,' to the general direction of the portraits of past Head-teachers, hanging expectantly in her office. Dumbledore's portrait stood and clapped, and Heliotrope Wilkins shouted, 'Oh, good show, eh Dilys?' Dilys Derwent was too busy wiping her eyes to respond.

Severus Snape was the only being present in the Headmistress' office who seemed unmoved by the news that Hermione Granger, missing-presumed-dead since May 2nd 1998, had at last been located by the team calling themselves _Operation Bring Back Granger._

He waited for everyone who was able, and not occupying a painting, to look into the Pensieve and see Hermione for themselves. Once calm had descended upon the celebrations, he walked over to his old desk, as if he were still its rightful occupant, and cleared his throat in order to gain the attention of the team.

'Touching though your reactions are, it should not need me to remind you that our efforts are not yet over. I would go so far as to say that the most difficult part of our project remains.'

'She's a witch, not a project,' mumbled Ron.

'Quite. However, she is a witch who is practically lost to us and has been for ten years. Hermione Granger is, for all intents and purposes, a Muggle now.'

Molly's sigh was audible, and it echoed the feelings of everyone else in the room.

'Not by her own will, Severus. Surely that fact will help with her rehabilitation?' Professor McGonagall implored.

'You know perfectly well that returning a modified memory after such a long time can be dangerous,' Snape replied. 'Our next approach needs to be carefully considered.'

'Why can't we just follow her, Stun her, and take her to St Mungo's? They can do what's necessary,' said Ron.

Snape's lip curled with practiced contempt. 'Well, we can all sleep easy in our beds tonight, safe in the knowledge that our Aurors are as meticulous and capable as ever,' he replied. 'Which bit of a _carefully considered approach_ are you having difficulty with, Weasley? Perhaps you would like to see your friend permanently situated in the next bed to Gilderoy Lockhart? I believe his perfectly restored memories keep everyone on the ward entertained.'

Ron reddened but kept his fury at bay. 'Fine,' he said, 'How's this for careful consideration? Why don't we get the bastard who did this to her? Make _him_ restore them?'

'Lucius Malfoy is in Azkaban,' said Harry. 'We can't just walk up to the main gate, flash our Auror badges and tell the Dementors we'll have him back in time for tea.'

'Yeah well, I know it'll take time and effort obviously, but it could be done,' replied Ron. 'It's a possibility in an emergency. And if this isn't an emergency, I don't know what is.'

'The Ministry might take a different view, and besides, there are other factors to bear in mind, Mr Weasley,' said Professor McGonagall.

'Such as? I mean, if you think she would prefer to live as a Muggle...there is no way ... I mean, I know she probably doesn't remember that she's a witch, but once she does, she'll be grateful she was found and rescued from that Muggle existence.' Ron looked to his mother for the back-up he knew he would receive and was thankful for her emphatic nod.

'Ron, Hermione may have a perfectly good life that she's happy with,' said Arthur gently. 'We have to be prepared for that.'

'I know that, but once she knows...' Ron appealed to his friends and family. '... she's bound to want to come back to us, be a witch again. I'm not saying that she'll have to turn her back on her Muggle life for good; she's Hermione after all.'

'She may be married,' said Snape, ignoring Ron's scowl. 'She may have children.'

Ron bowed his head in defeat and nodded slowly. 'Yeah, you're right. It's not that I haven't thought it a possibility; it's just that up until now, we've been so focused on finding her that it was easy to put thoughts like that to the back of my mind.'

' _You're_ married, Ron,' Ginny interrupted. 'What does it matter to you if Hermione has a husband and _ten_ children? You gave up on that a long time ago.'

Ron rounded on his sister, furious at her accusation of disloyalty. 'We thought she was dead until a year ago. We had all accepted that. It wasn't easy, but we had to move on. I don't want to think of her as married because, if that's the case, then there is even less chance of bringing her back. It's not that I feel like that about her anymore; I love Cassie, but I want Hermione back too.'

Ginny looked slightly ashamed of her outburst and left her father's side to move closer to Ron. She was rewarded with a reluctant smile of forgiveness. Ron looked over towards a large window overlooking the grounds, where Snape was now standing with his back to the room, gazing out upon the warm July evening in quiet contemplation.

'Any suggestions, Professor Snape?' he said.

Snape turned around to face them. 'Minerva? Perhaps you had something in mind?' he asked dutifully deferring to his superior.

'Perhaps, but let's hear yours first, Severus.'

Snape took a slow and deliberate step towards them. 'This is a long-term endeavour,' he said, enjoying the sensation of commanding a captive audience.

'Here, here,' said Dumbledore's portrait.

Snape threw his old mentor a look which let it be understood that he was not to be interrupted.

'The main objective from now on is to restore Miss Granger's memories and to bring her back home.'

'Agreed,' replied Harry.

'The obstacles to this mission are as follows: _we_ cannot restore her memories, only the person who tampered with them can effectively do that. Of course, there is a possibility that they will return by themselves. Lucius is in a weakened state; his magic is exhausted, and therefore, any magic he has performed may also be vulnerable and open to failure. For all we know, Miss Granger might already be experiencing an unsettling altered state in her consciousness as bits and pieces come back to her.'

Ginny interrupted. 'Altered? You mean hallucinations, stuff like that?'

'Perhaps unintentional magic or prophetic dreams,' continued Snape. 'If there is a natural return it needs to be monitored, charted... even carefully encouraged, then it is just possible that the delicacy of the return of her memories may be enough to prevent irreparable mental anguish.' Snape paused and walked back to the desk where he leaned lightly against it, folding his arms in a gesture of authority.

'Agreed, Severus,' said Arthur Weasley, 'she might think she's losing her mind if weird things start happening to her with no-one to explain and tell her she's not going mad.'

Professor McGonagall turned to her deputy. 'If I am to understand you right Severus, you are suggesting that one of us spy on her and report our findings back to the group? But what then?'

'That is very much dependent on Miss Granger herself. If she is exhibiting signs of memory return, it would be beneficial for the right person to work towards influencing their full restoration.'

'So any further course of action will depend entirely on what we find out?' replied Professor McGonagall.

Snape tipped his head in assent.

'So how exactly does the right person go about influencing her memories?' said Harry.

'He means for one of you to get to know her,' chipped in a familiar voice from its canvas confines. 'To reacquaint yourself with her, become part of her life, her friend. Spend time as a Muggle.'

Everyone turned to look at the wall.

'Is Albus right?' asked Professor McGonagall.

'Not that it is any of his business, but yes. I propose that we spend some time gathering enough information about Miss Granger's life, then nominate one of us to infiltrate it. That person will then have the opportunity, over the course of time, to jog her memories, to gently remind her of wizarding things. A slipped hint here, a dropped allusion there – small clues when least noticed. In time, she will piece them together, and her own mind will do the rest.'

'That could take forever,' said Ron.

'I take it they don't teach fortitude at Auror school, Weasley?' Snape replied with irritation. 'Do try to see the bigger picture for once.'

'Impulsive Gryffindors!' shouted Phineas Nigellus Black in support of his fellow Slytherin.

'I fear we are outnumbered, Headmaster,' replied Snape. He turned to the group of unlikely allies, which fortune had thrown him often in the company of over the past year. 'Then you are still determined to plump for the snatch, grab and hope-for-the-best option?'

'No!' said Harry. 'We may be Gryffindors, but we are not as reckless as you think. Your plan is the best we have; I vote we try it. What about the rest of you?'

'Absolutely,' agreed Professor McGonagall. 'But who is going to be the one to spy on her? And perhaps more importantly, who will volunteer to then become part of her life?'

Ron raised a cautious hand. 'I'd like to do it,' he said. 'I feel I have the right. She and I were... well, she was special to me. I want to be the one.'

Arthur looked at his son. 'Which is precisely the reason it shouldn't be you, Ronald.'

'And you're hardly the best choice for fitting in with Muggles, Ron,' said Ginny.

Professor McGonagall held up a hand to stop Ron's protest. 'This calls for a degree of impartiality: someone who can leave their feelings out of it, someone with experience of working undercover.'

Six pairs of eyes looked towards the Potions Master.

'Potter's Auror training gives him an excellent grounding in this kind of work,' Snape answered quickly. 'Who better?'

'I would never get permission to leave the job in order to pursue a personal project, Professor,' replied Harry.

'You are not the only one with obligations, Potter,' Snape spat. 'You always have to have the most important job, don't you? If it's not hunting Horcruxes, it's rounding up Death Eaters.'

Harry scowled. 'All I'm saying is the Ministry won't let me do it.'

Snape glared back at the son of his nemesis and not for the first time reflected upon the wisdom of agreeing to Minerva's plea for him to get involved. He had reluctantly agreed to help with the undercover work of locating the missing girl, but he had hoped that his input from now on would be minimal and advisory. He was happy to guide and direct; sneering at their cock-ups was an added bonus, but this was _their_ show, not his... not really.

He made a final effort to extricate himself from the task. 'And you are not the only one beholden to a superior.'

'I give you permission to take as much time off as you need, Severus.' The headmistress smiled shrewdly. 'Horace has a few years in him yet; I'm sure I can persuade him to help out for as long as you are busy with your detective work.'

Snape scowled at his double-crossing senior. 'And if I refuse?'

Six pairs of eyes looked at him with doleful accusation. Snape's frown matched their reproachful stares.

'Very well,' he said. 'I will agree to undertake the reconnaissance work, but I will not agree to anything further. Someone else may act upon my information.'

'Agreed,' replied Harry.

'Thank you, Severus,' said Molly.

'Then let _Operation Bring Back Granger_ commence,' said Professor McGonagall, handing out six glass tumblers into which she poured equal generous measures of Ogden's finest.

'A toast,' she proposed. 'To Hermione Granger's successful return.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Severus Snape had assumed his days of espionage to be as finished as the Dark Lord himself. Things had turned out so surprisingly well for him that it was now difficult to imagine a time when he had expected, even hoped, for a swift and final end to his miserable existence. The darkest of dark wizards had been defeated, Snape had survived, and rather than a humiliating trial and a stretch in Azkaban, he had been exonerated, decorated, and reinstated - if not as head, at least as deputy. The picture would almost be perfection itself if it wasn't for the fact that this unanticipated agreeable turn of events was largely Potter-created and Weasley-aided. It had been nothing more than a sense of obligation, therefore, which had forced his hand and made him agree to help with the quest to find Granger. It was with some reluctance that he found himself standing by the entrance of the Muggle train station, last viewed in the Pensieve, waiting for the girl he once knew, to exit her train so that he could trail her and find out enough information to pass the tiresome task on to someone with infinitely more time on their hands and an emotional investment to maintain their interest.

He had been waiting by the ticket booth, concealed by a Disillusionment Charm, for ten minutes before he spotted her walking along the passageway towards the glass exit doors. Her confident stride surprised him; it was not Hermione Granger's walk – not the child he had known – that bucked tooth, frizzy haired, awkward girl who had worked so hard to find friendship. This woman, talking into her Muggle contraption like so many of the others who passed him, seemed to fit into this world so thoroughly that he struggled to imagine her in school robes, wand in hand, striving to earn points for Gryffindor. His first moment of hesitation struck him immediately. He didn't doubt her identity; her features were unmistakably Granger, though their youthful roundness had gone. His sudden misgivings were for the justification of their mission, of the right they had to take her away from Muggledom back to a world of magic and uncertainty. Perhaps she would be better off amidst the Muggles she now seemed so a part of. He was not here to debate the wisdom of his mission, however, so he discarded his doubts as easily as he had concealed his treachery from The Dark Lord and began the task of following her movements for the next few hours.

She walked out onto the high street and made her way through crowds of commuters. It wasn't easy to keep up with her—she walked determinedly fast, clearly following a route she took every day, pausing only to operate road crossing beacons which beeped and flashed to stop traffic. He almost lost her at one point, but a shop window slowed her down. It seemed she was still unable to pass a book display without needing to stop and gaze. This first signal of a recognisable Granger trait made him wonder what was left of the original. He knew nothing of her history after the night of the final battle, but he did know that somehow she had encountered an escaping Lucius Malfoy, who had used a Memory Charm on her. Memory Charms were notoriously precarious; they required skill, precision, and planning to get it right. He very much doubted that a broken and dejected Malfoy, using a borrowed wand would have performed the most stable or meticulous piece of magic on the unfortunate witch. She was lucky to have escaped with her sanity, and as for whatever else remained—the essential part of her that made her Hermione Granger—there may be no trace left of her at all. He had thought it wise not to bring that point up at the last meeting when the _Recovery Team_ had been basking in relief and joy.

She left the book shop and continued on her course. The streets became quieter as she left the main part of town, until eventually she took them to an imposing, sprawling modern building, all glass, chrome and importance. She followed a group of young people exchanging morning greetings and smiles as they walked up the steps which led to the interior. A sign welcomed visitors to _Northdale College of Further Education_.

Professor McGonagall had expertly Transfigured the small plant stand, normally used for providing a perch for her potted Flitterbloom, into a round table. The table was large enough to accommodate seven chairs upon which sat seven witches and wizards. In the middle of the table was the stone Pensieve, containing Snape's newest memories which had just been eagerly scrutinised by the group. There was a moment of silence after the last pair, Molly and Arthur, had lifted their heads from the basin and retaken their seats.

'She definitely didn't see you?' Molly asked.

Snape scooped up the memories from the Pensieve with the end of his wand and returned them to his temple. 'It is too early to make contact.' He assumed that her question was more of a hope that Granger _had_ seen him, than a slight on his espionage abilities.

Professor McGonagall was sitting poker straight with her hands folded firmly in front of her, emphasising both her natural and conveyed authority. 'Let's go over what we know so far,' she said. 'We know that she is fully integrated into the Muggle world and shows no sign of awareness of her real self.'

Molly smiled fondly. 'She still likes books.'

'And she still likes to study,' Ron added, clearly anxious to add to the list that they were all secretly trying to compile, the list that would tell them that Hermione Granger remained, whole and intact, somewhere beneath the Muggle she now inhabited.

Ginny shook her head and sighed at the optimism of her mother and Ron. 'But we need more than that,' she said. 'It's not enough to go on yet. I don't see how any of us can become part of the bit of her life we've seen so far.'

Snape bristled at the implications of incompetence the youngest Weasley seemed to be levelling at him. He had used up almost a full week of his teaching schedule and still more of his own precious time in order to make an unwelcome return to intelligence work. His objective had been to make it quick and fruitful so that he could make a hasty exit from the project. 'I have agreed to spy for you, and I have agreed to report back my findings,' he said. 'However, I have no intention of turning every encounter into a detached memory for public viewing. The rest of my feedback will be given verbally.'

'There's more?' Harry asked eagerly.

'I haven't spent a week trailing her only to find out that she likes books and eats cheese sandwiches for lunch.'

'Why can't we see the rest of it then?' Ron's question had a note of suspicion which Snape took for a lack of trust. He scowled at the young Auror and ignored the question.

Snape had the full attention of the room as he continued. 'She is no longer Hermione Granger.'

'She will always be Hermione Granger,' Molly interrupted.

Snape paused until the murmurs of agreement had passed. 'Her name is now Rachael Saunders. She lives in a town in the Midlands called Heyford, where she has a small flat.'

'Then she probably isn't married,' Ron said hopefully.

Snape continued. 'She seems to have a variety of regular weekly activities: she attends a yoga class on Monday evenings.'

'Is that some sort of Muggle magic?' Ron asked, half in hope, half in disgust.

'You're thinking of Wicca,' replied Professor McGonagall. 'Quite a different thing altogether, I believe.'

'Yoga is some sort of exercise and relaxation class,' Snape explained. 'She also attends a reading group and is a member of... '

'A reading group?' Ron blurted out. 'Surely she hasn't lost the ability to read and write? Maybe that's why she still goes to school. Can a Memory spell do that?'

'Ron, he means a group where people meet up to discuss books,' Harry replied.

Ron grinned for the first time. 'Blimey, that sounds right up Hermione's street.'

'As I was saying,' Snape said, 'she is also a member of a group called _Liberty_ , which is dedicated to the protection of Muggle civil liberties and the promotion of human rights.'

Professor McGonagall clapped her hands together with delight. 'She's still our Hermione Granger,' she declared. 'She was always consumed by some put-it-right endeavour or another. I'll never forget those socks she used to knit for the House-elves.'

Harry turned to Ron and laughed. 'Remember the S.P.E.W badges she tried to make us wear?'

'Yeah, Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare,' Ron replied smiling fondly at the memory of Hermione's eccentricities. 'And she prepared all of Buckbeak's defence for Hagrid when we were too busy with our own stupid stuff.'

'She hasn't changed at all,' Ginny said.

Snape sighed and wondered if he was the only one in the room with a grasp on reality. 'Except for the fact that she no longer knows what a House-elf is and would likely faint if she saw a hippogriff.'

'But the point is that the Memory Charm has made her forget her magic, not herself, and that's about the best we could hope for at this stage,' Harry replied.

Professor McGonagall sat forward and looked around the table. 'You are both quite correct. Severus, you are right to point out that she has no memory of our world, but at least we know that her cares and interests are still the same, and that is a thing to give us hope. We still don't know if she has retained her personality, and we don't know if she will ever be able to perform magic again.'

'There must be stuff documented. Others who have recovered from bad Memory Charms,' Ginny chimed in. 'We need Hermione to run off to the library and do some research for us.'

Professor McGonagall unrolled a large piece of parchment. 'Well, you will be pleased to know that in the absence of our research expert, I took it upon myself, with the help of Madam Pince, to locate some relevant information. I found a number of references to similar cases.' She held the scroll aloft, coughed loudly and began to read. 'In 1909, Fenella Fairbright had her memories altered by a disgruntled neighbour who was jealous of her prize-winning fanged-geranium. She turned up at Gringotts twenty years later demanding the key to her vault. The goblins, who became suspicious of her erratic behaviour, reported her to the Ministry, where she was questioned and finally taken to St Mungo's. It turned out that her memories had returned because the angry neighbour had passed away. However, Fenella chose to turn her back on the magical world. She refused to accept her wand and insisted that her memories be re-modified to make her once again forget. She returned to her Muggle husband and children.'

'Bloody hell! Isn't there anything more hopeful?'

'Bear with me, Mr Weasley. There is a more recent case. In 1977, Hector Basenthwaite was admitted to St. Mungo's after being found by Ministry Officials in the public toilets above the Ministry, attempting to flush himself down without a wand. In his case, the memories had only partially returned, as a result of being exposed to a very vivid reminder of his past. As an ex-Ministry worker, he would have flushed himself to work every morning, and when he accidentally found himself in the Muggle section of the public convenience, it was enough to form a memory. Hector's return to our world was entirely voluntary though he never quite regained his full magical powers or memory.'

'That's the encouraging case?' Ron frowned and sunk lower into his chair. 'So she may not get her magic back even if she wants to return?'

'It depends on the original spell,' Snape said. 'We have no way of knowing the exact nature of the spell cast by Lucius because his own memory is inadequate, and the wand he used is unknown.'

There was a moment of silence as a wave of dejection rippled around the room. The lull was finally broken by Molly Weasley, who coughed loudly to gain the attention of the table. When she spoke, her voice was brisk and unwavering.

'Then what are we going to do? Give up on her? Leave her to the Muggles? Of course not. We must carry on with the plan. It's our only option, and there's no point worrying about what might happen and what might not happen.' She looked resolutely at Professor Snape who was sitting beside his superior. 'Here is what we are going to do: Ginny and I will join Hermione's Woga class, or whatever it is. I'm sure we can think of a way of getting to know her somehow.' She looked at her daughter and then back at Snape. 'Thank you for your help, Severus. We can take it from here.'

Snape had learned the hard way the true meaning of the adage: you never know what you truly love until it's gone. It seemed so long ago that he had been that hopeless, despairing man, impatient for Dumbledore to relent and appoint him as the professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts. He hadn't given a moment's thought to vacating the Potions classroom and moving upstairs, lock, stock and cauldron. But once he had left the cool familiarity of his dank and oppressive dungeon quarters, he knew immediately where his true vocation had always lain.

Every year he had spoken to the first-years of the beauty of softly simmering cauldrons, of the power that a potion could wield, but his purpose had always been seduction, not sincerity. Potions had the propensity to be viewed, by students as the poor relation to Charms and Transfiguration, and he could never allow his subject to be seen as less important than Flitwick's and McGonagall's. So he had transfixed them with promises of the shimmering fumes and delicately powerful liquids without even realising the real significance of his words.

Until, of course, they were gone.

He missed the sight of twenty cauldrons set out in haphazard rows, each at a various stage of brewing or ruination depending on the skill or inanity of the brewer. He missed the smell of aconite and asphodel and the feel of fluxweed as it yielded to his knife. Brewing a potion was an act of total will and absolute submission; it required a level of concentration, discipline and understanding that few other magical deeds could equal. When Snape was immersed in the act of brewing, he was lost to everything else but the carefully prepared ingredients, the delicate liquids, the pungent aromas and the magic he was creating. During the preparation phase, his thoughts could be carefully honed and crafted, and he realised now, as he stood at the head of an empty Potions classroom, stirring his Soothing Draught five times in a clockwise direction, followed by three in an anti-clockwise, that almost all of his really insightful thoughts and decisions occurred when he was submerged in the act of brewing a potion.

The potion he was currently employed in creating was one of his own concoctions: a hybrid of several more established brews. He had created it for the sole purpose of easing the war wound which still gave him unease at times, even though the injury had been inflicted and treated almost ten years ago. As the intricate stirring pattern worked its way into his unconscious, doing away with the need for concentration and instead becoming soothingly monotonous, his musings turned away from the usual tedious mulling-over of the day's events, and instead focused on his recent meeting with Professor McGonagall. The two of them met for tea and biscuits after classes on most afternoons to discuss school affairs, but today she had brought up a subject he had considered himself finished with: an update on the progress being made by the two Weasley women for the _Operation Bring Back Hermione Granger_ quest.

He had listened politely to the headmistress' report, of course; it was hardly his place to answer her with scorn or sarcasm, though refraining from such a response was sometimes quite the test of his willpower. It seemed that the yoga classes were not turning out quite as planned. Ginny and Molly had attended their first class (despite Molly needing to sit out the last twenty minutes). All seemed to be going well, and Ginny had managed to strike up some sort of conversation with Miss Granger... or rather... Miss Saunders. However, the following week, Miss Saunders had not turned up for class. Snape had listened to Professor McGonagall's account with minimal reaction, barely offering a raised eye-brow or a sympathetic nod, until she had given up and changed the subject. The matter of appointing a new librarian, now that Madam Pince had finally decided it was time to retire and leave her precious books to the care and attention of a younger despot, was infinitely easier to comment on.

The potion was lightening in shade from treacle black to a dull grey, just as it should at this half-way stage. When the solution turned to iridescent silver and filled his nostrils with the scent of singed oak, then he knew it would be ready for bottling. For now, however, his thoughts remained with Granger and the failing attempts to return her to the wizarding world. Perhaps he had been too hasty in relinquishing his role within the reconnaissance team. He would never admit it, but he had rather enjoyed the distraction that spying on an unsuspecting quarry had provided. He rarely had the opportunity or necessity to leave the hallowed halls of Hogwarts these days, and he almost never ventured into the Muggle world anymore.

Having a mission, a purpose, a vital job to do had been more stimulating than he had envisaged. It was for those reasons alone that he began to formulate the idea that he should return to the mission without going through the excruciating process of sitting through a meeting with Potter and the Weasleys before he could be given the all clear to go ahead. The following week was the half-term holidays; he would use it to revisit the Muggle educational establishment where he had last seen Granger. If anything came of it, he could always report back his findings and create some plausible reason for going it alone. Besides, how was she supposed to be rescued if left to the inane devices of six well-meaning half-wits?

The college restaurant was open for breakfast, lunch, and evening meal, according to the chalkboard menu. Snape bought a cup of tea and sat at the table adjacent to the object of his investigation, not bothering to conceal himself this time. Disguise was hardly necessary when the subject did not know she was being scrutinised. He watched as she spotted an acquaintance: a woman with short blonde hair and smiling eyes, and noticed her raise a hand as an invitation to join her. The two women quickly became engaged in animated conversation, just loud enough for Snape to overhear.

Hermione Granger, now Rachael Saunders, seemed relaxed and cheerful as she nibbled on her teacake and sipped her coffee, giving her friend advice on a mutual academic concern before lending a sympathetic ear to some drivel about boyfriend trouble. Snape was beginning to wonder what in Merlin's name had motivated him to spend his first Monday off in weeks, eavesdropping on the most mundane conversation he had heard since last Thursday when he had been stuck in the staff room, waiting for the weekly meeting to begin. After ten minutes of hearing about Madam Malkin's latest designs, he had soon concluded that Professors Sinistra and Vector could bore a Banshee to tears.

He was almost ready to declare the mission a complete waste of time: Hermione Granger was clearly fully integrated into the Muggle world; she had friends, interests, an occupation, and looked more tranquil than he ever remembered her appearing before. It was only when the friend asked about Granger's recurring dream that Snape's interest was finally piqued.

'Oh! You remembered about that?' Hermione replied with a wry smile.

'Well, it's a weird dream, Rachael. I never dream I'm a superhero.'

'I didn't say I was a superhero; I said I dreamed I had powers,' Hermione replied.

'Same thing.'

'More like magic.'

'Like abracadabra magic?' said the friend.

'Something like that.' Hermione paused for a minute, as if deciding whether to continue. 'I haven't had that dream for months, but…'

'You've had it again?'

'Recently it started again,' Hermione admitted. 'More intense this time.'

'Go on,' her friend encouraged.

Hermione shrugged. 'I can never remember much afterwards. When I first wake up its awful – as if I'm back from somewhere important, somewhere I'm meant to be, and I'm desperate to close my eyes and return to it. But I never can. After a while, it fades, and I can't remember details anymore. I just remember being somewhere... magical, and it felt... '

'It felt what?'

'Right.'

Here was proof indeed, that Hermione Granger must, without doubt, be brought back home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Snape had stayed long enough to hear that Hermione had a class in ten minutes. Ten minutes was plenty of time to do what was necessary.

The Muggle classroom was bright, functional, and modern; it bore no resemblance to the imposing elegance of the ones he was used to at Hogwarts. There were no wooden desks, just several rows of grey plastic moulded chairs each with its own tray which lifted to allow access and dropped again to act as a table top. Snape felt more uncomfortable taking his seat amongst fourteen young Muggle adults than he ever had when seated at the right hand of the Dark Lord in a room full of Death Eaters. Confunding his way on to the class register and obtaining an explanatory note from the secretary had been the work of a moment. He had only needed to know that Hermione took an evening class in French for beginners – the rest had been easy.

There were just two vacant seats left in the classroom now; only one of which was near to his own. He hoped she would turn up soon and occupy one of them, if only to stop him from speculating that there might be two classes for beginners French, and that perhaps, he was in the wrong one. An image of the eleven-year old, hand-waving Hermione came to mind, and he wondered if the adult-Muggle version had acquired a more desultory attitude to learning. He very much doubted it.

The chatter in the classroom faded to a murmur as the door opened to admit the teacher. Snape almost groaned out loud when Hermione Granger strode down the middle of the classroom and, rather than take a seat, continued to the front, set down a pile of books on the desk, and picked up the note which he had left there.

' _Bonjour la classe,_ ' said Hermione.

' _Bonjour Madame Saunders,_ ' was the collective reply.

The teacher gave the note a cursory scan. 'It seems we have a new student.'

Snape hadn't realised that he had been holding his breath until she looked directly at him. There was no flicker of recognition as she smiled warmly.

'Welcome, Mr Snape,' she said. 'You haven't missed too much, though you may need to go through the first three chapters of _Débuter en Français_ to catch up to where we are now. Do you have a copy yet?'

Madam Saunders handed him her own copy when he replied that he had not, and he felt his second mission to be already a resounding success when she suggested he stay behind for a few minutes after class for a quick overview of the curriculum.

He took the book from her hand and as he opened it at page one, he contemplated the absurdity of the situation: Hermione Granger—all questions and enthusiasm—anxious for recognition and eager for teacher praise. Now _she_ was the superior and _he_ the deferential student. Yet how could this exchange of their previous roles assist with the return of her memories? She was used to caustic comments and demanding expectations from him, not genial exchanges and cheerful pleasantries. He flicked through the pages of _Débuter en Français_ and decided that a reminder of their old teacher/student relationship was the best way to proceed. Besides, Snape had never been comfortable in the role of subordinate, despite the practice he had had.

Madam Saunders addressed her class with a bright smile and a confident air.

'Today, as promised, we will be taking a break from the language portion of the time-table to talk about the concept of French culture. Next week we will be concentrating on music, literature, and the arts, but today, I'd like us all to share our personal thoughts and experiences: holidays we have been on, friends we know, food we enjoy. Who would like to start us off?'

Snape listened incredulously to the informal so-called lesson. This seemed more like a chat amongst friends than an academic experience. Is this what passed for education in the Muggle world? He inwardly sneered as each class member spoke of their fun-filled trips to Paris or their passion for French pastries. The only experience he'd ever had with France was the invasion from Madam Maxime and her tribe during the Triwizard fiasco that had facilitated Voldemort's return to flesh. Perhaps he would tell them all about the winged-Abraxan horse-breeding programme at Beauxbatons; it would certainly spice up a very dull Monday evening French class. Or maybe they would be interested to know that the best school in France was a magical palace headed by a half-giantess.

His musings were interrupted by Madam Saunders who appeared to be asking him to share with the class his own impression of the French.

He thought of Fleur Delacour's loud complaints, which had rung around the Great Hall and resonated from every wall, corridor, and crevice. Not even the staff had been spared her forthright censure of all she had encountered. He met the teacher's expectant eye and smirked. 'Arrogant and condescending,' he said.

Madam Saunders's smile faded, and she raised an eyebrow. 'Really?' she said. 'A rather narrow-minded, stereotypical view, Mr Snape.'

'You asked my opinion. I gave it.'

'I was hoping for something a little more positive and encouraging. We are here to find out about the diversity and beauty of French culture, besides learning how to ask for directions to the Louvre.'

Snape's eyes narrowed, and he noticed her falter under the directness of his glare. 'Then you should have specified that you did not require honesty, only a bland appraisal. In which case, I concur that the wine is palatable and the climate hospitable... If not the natives,' he added as an afterthought.

Snape was beginning to enjoy himself. Madam Saunders wasn't even pretending to smile now; her face had taken on a decidedly pink tinge as she searched for a suitable reply. 'Mr Snape, if you have only joined my class to pour scorn and make snide comments which are based on nothing more than ignorance and prejudice, then I suggest you find another language to learn. Perhaps Italians are more to your liking!'

'Perhaps they are,' he agreed, 'but French is the language I am interested in, so here I will stay.'

Hermione's flustered glare was the first real reminder of the indomitable witch he remembered. Her childish insecurity was gone, but her determined chin could have been offset by a flurry of frizzy curls in the face of his blatant effrontery, and her resolutely folded arms may as well have been clad in a set of crisp black Gryffindor-edged robes.

She turned back to the classroom and quickly regained her composure, talking a little of her own childhood holidays in Brittany before inviting more contributions from the class.

Madam Saunders ignored Snape's raised hand. When he raised it higher and coughed in a passable imitation of the teacher herself at the age of twelve, she scanned the classroom desperately for any other takers before reluctantly conceding to his request for attention. It seemed that the rest of the class were more interested in hearing what he had to say than each other.

'Mr Snape? Did you have something to share?'

'I just wanted to check that I'm in the right class.'

'This is French for beginners,' she replied with forced politeness.

'Will we be learning any _actual_ French words? Only, so far, I seem to have learned " _Bonjour_ ", which, you won't be surprised to find out, I already knew.'

Hermione ignored both Snape and the muffled giggles which were rippling around the room.

'Anyone else?' she asked anxiously.

It was with obvious relief that she listened to the mundane account of Matthew Kershaw's skiing trip to the Pyrenees, which she allowed to go on for far longer than was necessary.

Snape's further interruptions made the hour seem like two to the teacher and a fraction of that to the rest of the class. By the end, her fury was only barely controlled. She dismissed the class as soon as the clock turned to nine and rammed her papers and books so hard into her bag that Snape, who had remained behind, was sure she was wishing it was his head she was viciously punching.

She looked up from her bag-stuffing with a start when she realised that not all the students had left.

'Do you have another complaint to make, Mr Snape? It seems that you found plenty to object to today.'

He stood from the small seat where he'd been uncomfortably scrunched for the best part of two hours and walked over to her. 'You did ask me to stay behind, Madam. An overview of the curriculum so far, I believe?'

'Oh! Yes, I'd forgotten.' She fumbled in her bag for the text book and was halted by Snape's outstretched arm, holding out the book she had lent him.

'Is this what you are looking for?'

'Yes. Thank you,' she replied, putting down her bag and taking the book from his grasp.

Snape tapped his fingers nonchalantly on the table top as he leant against it, waiting for her to find the relevant page.

'You'll need to get a copy of this book if you intend to continue,' she said. 'Though I'm not sure this class is really for you.' She glanced at him hopefully.

'I have paid my fees up front and was led to believe that there would be no refund. Therefore, I will be continuing.'

'Oh! Right.' She hid her disappointment by pointing out the relevant chapters for him to revise. 'Well in that case, we covered various forms of greetings, and common words and phrases in week one, and last week we focused on numbers and days of the week. Over the next few weeks, we will be learning how to tell the time, buy fruit and vegetables, and order food in a restaurant.'

'That all sounds perfectly acceptable.'

She lifted her head and looked at him warily, as if checking for signs of sarcasm; when she was satisfied that he was quite sincere, she continued. 'There is a planned outing on Saturday for those who feel it would be beneficial. It isn't compulsory, but I am taking a group of students to a French café to practice ordering coffee as a means of gaining confidence. Obviously, if you can't make it, it's not a problem... '

'I wouldn't miss it.'

Miss Saunders shrugged, shut her book and stuffed it in her bag with a little less aggression. 'Fine. We are meeting at _Chez Jules_ at 6 p.m. Do you know it?'

'No, but I'm sure I can find it.'

She hitched her bag onto her shoulder and walked towards the door. 'Well, I'll see you on Saturday then. If you can't make it, don't worry... '

'I'm beginning to think I'm not welcome,' Snape replied.

Hermione smiled weakly. 'Of course you are welcome, Mr Snape.' She reached for the handle and pulled open the door, turning to face him before making her escape. 'If you behave,' she added. She was gone long before he had chance to formulate a suitably sarcastic response.

Saturday evening finally arrived. Snape walked into _Chez Jules_ , feeling as awkward as a British wizard in a French Muggle café. He caught a glimpse of himself in the long mirror, which ran the length of the bar area and saw that his half-hearted attempts to dress like a Muggle had not worked. He would have looked more at home in the Leaky Cauldron, but as he looked around the busy little restaurant with its red chequered tablecloths and Toulouse Lautrec posters, he realised that it didn't matter. A middle-aged man with a suit too resonant of the last century was as likely to go unnoticed in non-magical Britain as a snitch in a snowstorm.

'You found it then?' Hermione was sitting at the end of two pushed-together tables, surrounded by five of her keenest students when Snape approached.

'Madam Saunders,' he said by way of greeting. 'It wasn't terribly difficult, as there is only one French restaurant in the whole of Heyford ...'

The only vacant chair was between Matthew Kershaw, the twenty-something class dimwit who had droned on about his skiing trip, and Hermione Granger, who looked as if she couldn't decide whether she would prefer her dull youthful student or her charmless new one for company.

'Well, take a seat Mr Snape,' she said as Matthew began scrolling down his phone to show her his holiday snaps. 'I don't think you know everyone yet.' Hermione waited for him to sit down before pointing out the students one by one and uttering names he had no intentions of remembering. 'And I'm only Madam Saunders during class, of course; tonight, please call me Rachael. And perhaps you might like to share your first name: "Mr Snape" seems a little formal, considering the occasion.'

Snape kept his eyes firmly fixed on the menu he was perusing and deliberated on telling her that "Mr Snape" would do just fine. She may be in a position of superiority in this world, but the idea of her addressing him as an equal still turned his stomach just a little. However, he conceded that hostility towards his perfectly amiable, and seemingly popular, teacher could only go so far.

'Severus,' he replied.

The waitress approached with a bottle of wine and began pouring a small measure into each glass.

' _Merci beaucoup,_ ' responded a female student who Snape vaguely recognised from class. Her brave attempts to practice her French earned her a smile of approval from her teacher.

Snape nodded curtly to the waitress who was hovering the bottle over his own glass to wait for an assent. 'I thought you said we were meeting for coffee?' he observed to Hermione.

'Ah! Yes, I was outvoted. Apparently, six o'clock counts as evening and, therefore, coffee is redundant, so wine it is.'

Snape took a sip from his glass and listened as Hermione chatted to the young woman sitting to her left about some film they both wanted to see. His only experience of the cinema was as a boy –some American cowboy thing his father had taken him to see. It was the only father-son outing they had ever been on together, and Snape often wondered if it had been a last attempt to make a Muggle out of his disappointing offspring. Tobias Snape must have judged the mission a failure when young Snape "accidentally" dropped his carton of orange juice onto the head of the loud boys sitting several seats away from them. His father had dragged him out of his chair furiously and marched him home. He had sent him upstairs to his room and proceeded to blame his mother for their son's "unnaturalness". It wasn't the first time his mother had come into his bedroom in tears, begging her son to stop doing magic. As if he could have stopped himself.

'We are talking about feel-good films, Severus.' Hermione shifted her chair a degree so that she could comfortably speak to both her neighbours. 'Do you have one?'

' _Terminator_!' chimed in Matthew Kershaw.

The young woman beside Hermione shook her head and laughed. 'How is _Terminator_ a feel good film?'

'The bad guy gets killed in the end. It made ME feel good,' Matthew replied. 'What's yours then?' he asked the two women.

'I was just telling madam... Rachael that mine is _Amelie._ It always makes me smile.'

Hermione grinned. 'Well, Karen gets extra brownie points for choosing a French film. And though I love _Amelie_ too, I'm going to choose _The Witches_ , because I remember watching it as a child and being terrified and fascinated at the same time.'

'Terrified?' Snape asked, wondering why a film about witches might instil terror into a young girl.

'Yes, they were hell-bent on killing children and I was only ten.'

'Then why were you fascinated?'

'Because they could do magic,' she replied as if the answer was obvious. He couldn't fault her logic and at least she had expressed a fascination, rather than a repulsion for magic. It still remained to be seen if she was still capable of performing it.

She turned to Snape again. 'So what about yours, Severus?'

Snape inwardly cringed at her second use of his name in less than five minutes. 'I rarely get chance to watch films,' he replied. 'I can't remember the last time I did.'

Karen leaned forward to get a better view of him. 'You must have a busy life. What is it you do?'

He had anticipated this question at some point in the evening and had considered several plausible possibilities to prevent further interrogation and suspicion. As an accomplished spy, he was acutely aware that the most effective lies are as near to the truth as possible. 'As a matter of fact, I teach.'

'That doesn't surprise me in the least,' Hermione replied. 'I bet you teach Latin at an all-boys Grammar school.'

'I teach chemistry in a mixed school.'

'And I'm guessing that your style is a lot more formal than mine?'

'My methods are more stringent, yes. I do not encourage dissent.'

'Or autonomy?'

'Autonomy has no place in a classroom, particularly not in an environment where fire, dangerous substances, and stupidity are gathered together. You may get away with your share and care attitude in Adult Beginners French, but in my experience, it is tantamount to disaster.'

Hermione's features darkened. 'You think it's acceptable to call your students stupid?'

'Would dishonesty be more palatable?'

'No, but respect for your students would.'

'If you had experienced as many near-fatal accidents as I have due to ignorance and idiocy, you would be less eager to champion a group of children you have never even met.'

'Perhaps if you had a little faith in them, instead of continuous expectations of failure.'

'May I ask how many years you have been teaching? You seem to be quite the expert.'

Hermione stared intently at the glass in front of her. 'Two. Not that endurance has any bearing on my views. I doubt they will have changed when I have ten or twenty years of experience to call upon.'

'Then you will make a poor teacher. My own views are formed from a combination of mishaps and errors. I didn't walk into my first classroom with ready-formed ideas forged in iron; they took shape over a period of time. When a student's mistake results in bodily harm, it is wise to conclude that giving a thirteen-year-old the benefit of the doubt is perilous.'

'Then perhaps it is your inadequate supervision which is in question. Children can't be expected to become proficient in a subject, particularly chemistry, without making mistakes.'

Snape's irritation was increasing rapidly as Hermione admonished him on a subject he regarded himself an expert in and upon which she was a self-confessed novice. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that Lucius Malfoy's badly executed Memory Charm had, unfortunately, caused no loss or change to her personality: she was still an infuriating know-it-all, even without the excuse of youth and the anxiety of trying to fit into a new world, to exonerate her. The only difference between this version and the magical original was that this one was not afraid to question him. Hermione Granger would never have dared to speak so freely with him; Rachael Saunders, was undaunted. He frowned at her and saw in front of him a girl with bushy hair concentrating with all her might over a steaming cauldron while surreptitiously trying to prevent Neville Longbottom from producing another botched potion.

Their immediate neighbours had tired of a conversation they had both no interest in or an opinion about, and Karen and Matthew's attention soon turned away from Severus and Hermione's discussion to find a more absorbing conversation at the other end of the table.

Snape prepared to retaliate against Hermione's assault by making a sarcastic reminder that his experience of her own teaching abilities had been underwhelming so far. He stopped himself from making the condemnation, however, as he recalled that he was not here to pick a fight with her; his unofficial mission was to remind her of her magic and her previous life, if that was possible, not to engage in petty disputes. An after-effect of Snape's unprecedented survival was the ability to recognise inconsequential moments and to walk away from them. He could never be accused of tolerance, but ten years as a free and respected man, when his expectations had been only death or denunciation, had given him a somewhat more relaxed outlook on life... by his standards.

'We are going to have to agree to disagree on teaching methods,' he replied. 'I will only say that our experiences of the job have been quite different, and that fact in itself has led us to our respective opinions.'

Hermione looked surprised by his conciliatory response, and perhaps, he thought, a little disappointed. She smiled at him, however, and topped up his diminishing glass of wine. 'How can I argue with that without seeming needlessly partisan? You are right, of course: your experience has been very different from my own. In fact, I never meant to be a teacher at all. Sometimes I wonder how it happened.'

'What did you intend to be?'

Hermione sat back in her chair, and her eyes rested upon her students at the bottom end of the table, chatting and laughing nonchalantly amongst themselves. She appeared to be giving the seemingly innocuous question very careful consideration, as if it was the most significant thing she had ever been asked.

She shrugged. 'Something extraordinary,' she replied and turned to look at him with a self-conscious smile. 'I've tried my hand at many things, and nothing ever seems right. Still! I suppose everyone feels like that—silly, really.'

Snape returned her gaze thoughtfully. 'Perhaps,' he replied. 'Perhaps not.'

'And what about you? Is teaching your vocation?'

Snape snorted. 'Hardly.' Her question made him realise that he had never had to account for his career decision to anyone before. There was not a soul of his current acquaintance who was not aware of his past, and no one would feel it their place to broach any issue pertaining to his dubious history with him. In truth, he always felt as if there were now too many subjects in his life that could be deemed as elephants in the room. His colleagues had seemed more in awe of him than ever once his true loyalties and motivations had been revealed by Harry, and the possibility of friendship seemed increasingly elusive.

His teaching career had been forced upon him by the manic manipulator he once served and perpetuated by the other. Yet he had made his own decision to continue with it after Voldemort's demise with only minimal persuasion from Minerva and the Ministry representative who had come to see him in St Mungo's as he recovered from the snake-bite. He had swallowed the urge to tell them where to stick their generous offer, and though he refused to continue as headmaster, he accepted the role of deputy on the condition that his superior would be Minerva McGonagall; if anyone could do the job, the old bat could, and he could never agree to take orders from anyone else. So he had signed the contract as he lay in his hospital bed, wondering if he was making the right decision and realising it didn't really matter: his choices were limited. What else was he to do?

He reflected on Hermione's question carefully. 'I certainly never expected to be a teacher. Sometimes events have a habit of taking control of us whether we like it or not. And sometimes it is for the best.'

'And what did you intend to be?'

 _A Dark wizard in the service of a monster, the doting husband of Lily Evans, the wizarding world's greatest potioneer._

'Something extraordinary,' he replied.

Hermione smiled and lifted her glass. 'I told you it wasn't just me.'

They were interrupted by the waitress who had appeared to take their food orders, and Hermione's attention was absorbed by the task of overseeing her student's unconvincing French and filling in for their deficiencies. Snape ordered the plainest dish he could find and excused himself with the intention of wandering off to get some fresh air and escape the crowded and noisy café. He found a door along a passageway to the rear of the main dining area which led to an outdoor area, used on warmer evenings for alfresco dining. The current summer evening was too damp and cool to invite customers outside for any use beyond a quick cigarette, so Snape had the patio to himself. He took a seat and stretched out his legs, enjoying the exchange of clamour for peace. He realised that the outside area was visible to no one and, for a moment, he considered calling it an evening and Apparating back to Hogwarts without bothering to say goodbye. He could always make some excuse up, if need be, in the next French class. He looked about him to second check his privacy and noticed that the open door, which led back inside, gave him an extensive view of the passageway he had just taken. He grimaced as Hermione came into view, carrying a tray heavily-laden with drinks, apparently circumventing the busy waitress and taking it upon herself to visit the bar.

Everything that followed happened so quickly that Snape needed to check the details later that evening in the Pensieve. Two young children, too restless to sit at table with mum and dad any longer, had run through the restaurant and were hurtling towards the passageway leading to the outside area; they raced around the corner heedless of the woman carrying a tray of assorted drinks, and there was nothing either Snape from his vantage point outside, or Hermione, carefully negotiating her way along the passage, could do—the collision was inevitable. Snape watched impotently as the small boys smashed into Hermione with such a force that she wasn't able to keep the tray in her hands steady—the drinks tumbled from the tray and should have rained down upon the children, but instead, he saw them fly from their precarious salver, plummet towards the children then seemingly defy gravity by halting their descent a mere centimetre from the crowns of the boy's heads. The oblivious children merely giggled and continued to run towards the open door, unaware of the woman they had just careered into and the floating glasses and bottles of wine which were now safely ensconced where they should be: neatly arranged on a tray in Hermione's hands. Snape saw that her expression was stricken with fear as she gaped after the boys and then at her tray of drinks.

Now he had a decision to make. Snape's dilemma was fuelled by his expectations of the melodramatic reaction this news would create once the rescue team was aware of what he had just witnessed. Should he go inside and reveal to her what he had just seen? Or should he bide his time until she was calmer? She was bound to be agitated by her experience, but perhaps she would be more receptive to discussing the incident while in a state of distress. He decided that exploitation of her anxiety was undoubtedly the best course of action, he needed to press his advantage now he knew for certain that Hermione Granger could perform magic.

She seemed more composed than he had expected when he returned to his seat, though she was certainly more contemplative and less willing to join in the conversation. Snape seated himself next to her with the intention of revealing that he had witnessed her almost-accident and that she had no reason to be startled by what she had done. Before he had chance to speak however, she rose from her seat almost spilling the contents of her glass.

'I'm really sorry everyone,' she announced. 'I have to go…I'm suddenly not feeling well and…' She grabbed her coat and bag. 'So sorry. I have to go.'

Snape ignored the murmurs of concern from the group and sped off after her, hoping to catch her before it was too late. The two unruly children who had unwittingly exposed Hermione's abilities got in his way, and a waiter carrying several platefuls of food had to be negotiated around before he could reach her. By the time he had made it to the door, she had disappeared and though he searched up and down the street, it seemed he was too late—she was nowhere to be seen. Feeling equal measures of elation and frustration he conceded defeat, found a quietly convenient side-street, and Apparated back to Hogwarts with the news he knew they were all waiting for: Hermione Granger was undoubtedly still a witch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

'The more you have of it, the less you see. What is it?' asked the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmistress' office.

Snape glared at the stone sentinel and wished that Minerva would get over her inner Ravenclaw and just come up with some obscure password instead—he was almost beginning to wish for the return of passwords pertaining to tooth decay. He mulled over the ambiguous question for a moment and sighed. 'Darkness,' he replied. The gargoyle silently moved aside to reveal the stone spiral staircase which led to the office he knew so well.

Filius Flitwick turned around as Snape entered the room and greeted him with a smile. 'Good evening, Severus,' he said as he jumped down from the seat where he was very cosily ensconced beside a pleasantly roaring fire.

Professor McGonagall was equally at ease in her own chair; she brushed the biscuit crumbs from her robes and raised two questioning eyebrows as her deputy opened the door and marched into the room. 'Severus,' she said, 'I wasn't expecting to see you this evening. Do we have a meeting I'm unaware of?'

Snape nodded a greeting to Professor Flitwick and turned to Professor McGonagall. 'I'm here on a private matter, Minerva,' he replied.

'May I ask the general nature of your concern?' asked the headmistress.

'It is regarding a mutual acquaintance who has recently been located,' he answered carefully.

Flitwick's eyes shone with delight. 'News of Miss Granger? Wonderful.'

Minerva gave a wry smile at Snape's indignant glare. 'Filius is well aware of our efforts,' she explained. 'In fact, I was just filling him in on the particulars, so your timing couldn't have been better. Pull up a chair, Severus, and let's hear what you have to say.'

Snape reluctantly did as bid, taking a seat in the middle of his senior and his colleague so that the three of them were arranged comfortably around the small table and the fireplace. He begrudgingly accepted a cup of tea.

'I was just telling Filius of our great excitement and success in finding Hermione Granger.'

'What news!' Filius chimed in. 'I'm quite overwhelmed. And all these years we thought her dead. How could such a terrible mistake have been made?'

Minerva nodded in agreement and began to explain. 'She was last seen by an Auror in the castle grounds on the evening of the final battle.'

'Yes, yes, I remember hearing something about that. I was in St Mungo's myself for several weeks after the final battle. I missed hearing about the details, and it all seemed so irrelevant afterwards: she was gone—what was the use of going over it again?' Filius seemed lost in his thoughts for a moment before recalling the specifics of the current conversation. 'What on earth was she up to?'

' _That_ we don't know for sure,' Minerva replied. 'All we do know is what Dawlish saw. It was the Malfoys he had been after; he saw the three of them dashing down towards Hagrid's hut and realised they were trying to escape justice. He went after them and saw them enter the hut. As he made to follow them, he saw Miss Granger also running in that direction. She ran through the door moments after the Malfoys, and Dawlish reported seeing evidence of several hexes being fired—by whom, he couldn't say from his vantage point. That's when the explosion happened.'

Flitwick shifted uneasily in his chair. 'And of course, I recall that Hagrid's hut was completely destroyed in the explosion.'

Minerva nodded. 'It was hoped that Miss Granger had managed to Disapparate and escape but... ' Her voice trailed off.

'Certain artefacts were found,' Snape finished.

'Artefacts?' squeaked Filius. 'I never knew about that.'

'I don't believe the details were made public at the time. Part of a wand had been thrown from the hut in the blast. It was badly damaged, but it was identified as Miss Granger's,' Snape explained.

'There was another partially destroyed wand which was identified as Narcissa Malfoy's,' Minerva continued. 'Once the discoveries had been made, it was naturally assumed that all had perished in the blast. All the worse because it occurred after Voldemort's defeat. Everyone should have been safe and sound with their friends and family. Merlin only knows what she thought she was doing chasing after the Malfoys.'

'And what made you realise that Miss Granger hadn't perished?' Filius asked.

'If you recall, the Malfoys turned up,' said Minerva. 'They had managed to remain incognito for almost nine years, but for some reason—maybe the years of successful hiding had given him a false sense of security—Lucius Malfoy turned up as large as life in the cellar of Malfoy Manor apparently looking for something. There were all sorts of enchantments and protections on the Manor for precautionary reasons. The Ministry was alerted almost immediately, and before he had the chance to Disapparate himself to safety, he was in the custody of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. You know the rest: his trial and imprisonment.'

'Yes, I remember the front page of the _Daily Prophet_. And naturally, he was interrogated about Miss Granger? That bit never made the papers,' Filius observed.

'At length,' Snape replied. 'Magical inducements were necessary to retrieve a clear understanding of events. Under the influence of Veritaserum, it was revealed that Lucius Stunned her as she'd entered the hut, where they apparently had a Portkey waiting for them. Miss Granger almost foiled their getaway plan.'

'But if Malfoy did hit her with a Stunner before using the Portkey how did Miss Granger survive the explosion? And what caused the blast?'

'Ah! Well, that information came from a different source,' explained Minerva, 'by way of Draco Malfoy. As you know, both he and Narcissa were exonerated as unwilling participants during Voldemort's regime, following Lucius' testimony. Draco volunteered his memories of that fateful evening, for use as evidence, and thanks to his memories, it was revealed that Miss Granger—as far as he knew—was still alive.'

'Did she manage to escape after all? What of her destroyed wand? She couldn't Disapparate without it?'

'That's the surprising bit,' Minerva answered. 'Draco's memory revealed that they entered the hut and found the Portkey already glowing. Lucius ran towards it and dragged Narcissa along with him. At that moment Miss Granger entered and tried to stop them with a Stunning Hex which narrowly missed. Lucius retaliated with a Blasting Curse which Miss Granger managed to avoid, but it hit the basket of Ashwinders— Hagrid had been keeping them illegally—and you know how volatile they are. Draco revealed that he realised that the place was about to go up and had a split-second decision to make. Lucius grabbed the Portkey and Narcissa; Narcissa grabbed Draco, and Draco, in a rare moment of decency, grabbed Miss Granger.'

'Gracious me!' muttered Filius. 'Well I never. And I take it she dropped her wand in all the commotion?'

'That seems to be the obvious conclusion. Draco only made note that when they landed at their destination—a farmer's field in the middle of nowhere—she had no wand.'

Filius gasped. 'Then she was completely at the mercy of the cowardly Malfoys.'

'There was some discussion regarding what to do with her,' Snape continued 'Draco refused to comment on Lucius' view on the matter—but apparently, his mother agreed that they should Obliviate Miss Granger and leave her somewhere she could be found and cared for. Lucius was using a borrowed wand; his own had been confiscated months previously. The Memory Charm he used on her was... '

'Memory Charms are particularly difficult,' Filius interrupted. 'Without a practiced and skilled hand, the result can be catastrophic.'

'Indeed,' said Snape. 'And it seems that, in this case, the result _has_ been catastrophic.'

Filius placed his half-eaten chocolate biscuit back on the plate in order to give his full attention to Snape. 'How so? Surely you can't mean the girl has gone the way of... ' He whispered, '... _Lockhart_?'

Minerva answered her professor's question. 'Not quite, Filius. That is to say, she seems to be quite sane and able to function perfectly well... Almost!'

'Almost?'

'I'm afraid to say that she has lost all of her memories and now lives among Muggles with no recollection of our world, or of who and what she really is.'

Filius made a strange high-pitched squeak in response and shook his head. He picked up the other half of his biscuit as if to eat it, then changed his mind and replaced it. 'Shocking,' he said sadly. 'And her magic?'

Minerva sighed. 'I'm afraid we don't know that yet. Let us just say that we are working on it.'

Snape's moment had come at last. He flicked at an imaginary crumb from his sleeve and said in his smoothest voice, 'I have some interesting news on that subject, Minerva. Perhaps now you are ready to hear it?'

Snape had the full attention of the room. Minerva McGonagall, Filius Flitwick and a wall-full of eminent dead people seemed to lean in closer to catch Snape's words.

'Well?' said the headmistress impatiently.

'It turns out that Miss Granger is able to perform powerful and precise accidental magic,' he said.

Snape was highly amused by the look of relief on Minerva's face as he explained what he had seen, but less so when she declared that the rest of the team must be informed at once by way of another tedious meeting.

He drained the contents of his teacup and set it down on the table. 'I will continue to attend Granger's dreary French classes, as I seem to have made more headway than Molly Weasley and Ginny Potter combined; however, I must insist that I be excused from the meetings.'

'Absolutely not, Severus. We will be depending on your detailed and regular feedback. You are the last group member to be allowed a pardon. You must attend.'

Snape got to his feet and walked towards the fireplace—his favourite place to lean and ponder when the office had belonged to him. 'I will report to you, Headmistress. I will update you regularly of my progress without fail.' He hesitated and attempted his best imposing look. 'Those meetings are time-consuming and unproductive—I work better alone.'

Minerva set down her own teacup and Vanished the contents of the table. She pushed her chair back a touch to stretch out her legs and tap her feet thoughtfully on the Persian hearth rug. 'Oh, very well, Severus. You always did despise the Order meetings, didn't you? But I will hold you to your promise of regular feedback. I suppose I'll have to apprise Harry and the Weasleys by myself—there'll be quite a reaction when they find out that you are involved after all. And with more success. But they will also be relieved when they hear what you witnessed.'

Snape smirked. He was well aware of the inevitable explosion when they found out that he had taken it upon himself to do the job which had unsuccessfully been attempted by the two Weasley women. He had no intention of being anywhere near the castle when that meeting took place. 'I'm grateful, Minerva. I'm sure you'll find a way to tell them... tactfully.'

Minerva glared at her deputy. 'Why do I feel like I've just been on the receiving end of a typical Slytherin manoeuvre?'

Snape smiled at her smoothly. 'We all play to our strengths. You will undoubtedly be calling upon your Gryffindor courage when you chair the up-and-coming meeting.'

'And you will need to find some Gryffindor courage yourself if you let me down on this, Severus.'

'I have no intention of failing. Hermione Granger will be back among us before the year is out.'

'I had hoped it may be a good deal earlier than that,' said Minerva resignedly.

Filius jumped back down from his seat, where he had been quietly listening to the conversation between his headmistress and her deputy. 'It's a tricky business,' he said. 'Slowly does it. Trying to make her remember too soon could be disastrous. Severus is the man for the job, he won't be impetuous... he knows how to wait.'

Snape bowed his head in acknowledgement. 'I'm grateful for your... faith in my abilities,' he said, not missing the uncomfortable exchange of glances between Minerva and Filius at his subtle reminder of a time when their confidence in him was not so unswerving. 'I will give you a full report when I am able,' he muttered as he made to leave. 'Until then, I will say goodnight to you both.'

'Next week, Severus,' shouted Minerva to the door as it slammed shut behind him. 'That man is impossible,' she said to Filius who had taken it upon himself to replenish the table with a pot of tea and another plate of biscuits.

'But he knows how to get the job done, Minerva.' 

Snape was too early for his next French class, so the college library seemed like the perfect place to while away half an hour. He wasn't really surprised to see the silent figure of Rachael Saunders, seated at a desk, surrounded by books, head bowed in contemplation, her soft brown curls loose and tumbling over the book she was immersed in. She didn't look up as he approached.

He glanced at some of the titles she was reading and was amused to note that the research seemed to be connected to the accidental magic he had witnessed at the restaurant. It was so typically Granger behaviour, he almost expected to see a copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ amongst her haphazard collection. ' _Bonjour_ , Madam Saunders,' he said when it seemed she wasn't going to notice him.

She looked up quickly as if she had been so engrossed in her reading that the world around her had been momentarily forgotten. 'Oh, hello, Severus,' she replied not quite meeting his eye. 'Er… you must be wondering about my disappearing act on Saturday?'

Snape wondered if he would ever get used to hearing Hermione Granger's voice speaking to him with such easy familiarity. It occurred to him that once she remembered who he really was, she would never be able to smile at him without trepidation or use his first name without the hint of a blush, as she seemed perfectly able to do now.

'Ah, yes,' he said, 'was it something I said?' He picked up one of her books and examined the cover.

She smiled feebly. 'Surprisingly, no. I'm afraid something came up. Something urgent.'

'What a shame,' he replied. 'You passed up on some wonderful food and enlightening company.'

'You stayed?' she responded with genuine surprise. 'I'm sorry to have missed out.'

'Of course not, I left when you did, but I suppose _you_ would have found the evening to be satisfactory had you stayed.'

'So might you,' she retorted.

Snape picked up another one of her books and read the title out loud. ' _Explaining the Unexplainable: The Phenomenon of Moving Objects with Your Mind_ ... An unusual research project.'

Rachael Saunders flushed and snatched the book out of his hand. 'You don't believe in the unexplainable?'

'Do you?' he replied, taking a seat at her table.

She shrugged. 'I believe in reason and logic, and as a scientist, I'm sure you do too.'

Snape wondered how she had reacted on first receiving her Hogwarts letter and Muggle-born visit from Professor McGonagall. Did she believe in logic and reason when she was an eleven-year-old with unexplained magical powers or was her mind more receptive back then? He made a mental note to raise the subject with Minerva during his next report—it may be of some use in determining how much to share with her and how much to withhold.

'I believe in what I see,' he told her.

'How scientific of you.' Rachael Saunders looked up at him for a moment and then returned her eyes to the text she was reading. 'So did I,' she murmured.

'You speak in the past tense.' He noticed how tired she looked—not only as if she had been troubled by sleepless nights, but there was something in her expression which portrayed a deep-seated disquiet. The confident woman he had watched from the train station was beginning to fade.

She shook her head. 'I didn't mean to,' she said dismissively. 'I'm just doing some research…for a friend, that's all.'

Snape flicked through the pages of one of her other books and read the first paragraph out loud. ' _Telekinetics are those people with abilities that result in a metaphysical disturbance or manipulation via precise transmissions sent by the mind, creating fluctuations in universal forces and objects. Just as the limits of a computer seem endless, so too, is the potentiality of human beings_.' He looked up at her and raised an enquiring eyebrow.

'I didn't say I believed in this stuff,' she replied without lifting up her head. 'I told you, I'm just looking up something for my friend.'

Snape flicked through the book with interest. 'Has your... _friend_ experienced something to make her feel she may possess these unexplainable abilities?'

'Apparently,' she snapped. 'That's why I'm researching it.' She slammed her book shut and chose another one. 'Don't let me stop you from doing whatever it was you came in here to do.'

Snape was too fascinated by their current topic and Rachael Saunders' attempts at denial to take her up on her feeble attempts to dismiss him.

'I'm here to pass time,' he said, feigning interest in another one of her books. 'May I ask what the precise nature of your... _friend's_ experience was?'

Rachael glared at him. 'I'm sure she just imagined it.'

'Your extensive and focused research seems to say that you suppose otherwise.'

'You are making fun me. I told you, I am extremely sceptical about the whole thing. It's just that my friend is upset by the thing that happened to her.'

'And what exactly _did_ happen to her?'

'Apparently she thinks she made an object move.'

'Interesting,' Snape replied carefully.

'Not that I believe her for one moment,' she continued hastily. 'I believe in…'

'...Logic and reason, yes. Yet, here you are, fervently researching a crackpot subject based on irrationality and lack of reason. For your _... friend_.'

'And it's really none of your business.'

'When someone believes they are able to manipulate objects with their mind I can't help being interested.'

'You are a scientist, you should know that there is a perfectly plausible, scientific explanation for everything, even telekinesis.' She opened one of her books at a marked page and pushed it towards him. 'Look, it says here that with a great deal of focus and concentration a person can create electromagnetic fields to influence electrons attached to objects around them.' She squinted at the book. 'At least, I think that's what it means.'

'With a great deal of concentration?' he replied. 'Did your friend apply a great deal of concentration to the object she managed to move?'

Rachael's shoulders slumped and she pushed the book away from her with resignation. 'No,' she sighed. 'It just happened.'

He was supposed to be treading oh so carefully, he knew that, but attempting to win her confidence and tip-toeing around the subject he would much rather talk candidly on, was proving to be impossible: one cancelled out the other. Broaching the subject of what she thought of as her telekinetic abilities only made her more guarded and suspicious of him. She assumed his scientific background and cynical demeanour made him a sceptic, just like she knew she should be. Perhaps she could have been more honest if he had openly witnessed her magic.

A childhood memory invaded his conscious thoughts for a moment; he recalled a playground close to his home at Spinner's End—a young girl and her sister playing together, and the moment he realised that the pretty red-head was a witch. He had never had anyone but his mother to share in the wonder of his magical abilities, and she had done her best to suppress them for the sake of his father—they were not celebrated or cherished—there had been no rejoicing when they had first become apparent as a very small boy. But this young girl might be his salvation: she was a Muggle-born; he was sure of that from the horror on her sister's face as she made the flower petals in her hand open and close at will. He had so wanted to be her Angel, the bringer of great joy, the one with the entitlement to proclaim the news and reveal the truth about her powers. She could be someone to share his abilities, hopes, fears, and time with. He had trembled with excitement and anticipation as he had stepped out from behind the bush he had been watching her from—he had not meant to startle her. She was supposed to be happy and grateful when he told her, but he had blurted it out; it had sounded all wrong and she had been suspicious.

 _You're a witch, Hermione_.

Rachael Saunders would need a much more measured approach than he had needed with Lily. But just like Lily, she knew she was different—he was certain of that.

'Then I would surmise that a different explanation is required,' he ventured. 'Perhaps you need to delve outside the boundaries of scientific explanation.'

Rachael threw him a suspicious look; he knew that she assumed he was teasing her again. 'That's very open-minded of you, _Mr_ Snape,' she replied.

'Professor.'

'What?'

'If you are going to insist on formalities, I'll have my proper title. I am _Professor_ Snape.' He noticed that she furrowed her brow as if in concentration as he spoke his name to her.

' _Professor Snape_? How eminent. I apologise, _Professor._ '

'There's no need. You are my teacher and I am your student; you are allowed to take certain liberties ... _Madam_ Saunders.' He paused for a moment as two students walked by on their way to the reception desk. 'Perhaps there is something in this... telekinetic theory.'

'You don't believe that.'

'I told you, I believe in what I see.'

Rachael Saunders narrowed her eyes, and she contemplated him as if checking for signs of derision. 'And what _have_ you seen, Severus?'

He returned her gaze and saw that behind the mistrust was a yearning to share a confidence; perhaps not with him—not yet, but this was his opportunity to test her responsiveness. He may as well be truthful.

'I have seen objects move at the bidding of a human being with the intention to prevent harm and _without_ focus or concentration. How do you explain that?'

Rachael's tired brown eyes widened at his words, and her cheeks flushed. She seemed about to question him further but he noticed her take a self-conscious breath, as if she wanted to stop herself from saying something regretful. 'Feel free to read up on your strange experience then, Professor Snape. I'm finished with my research—it turns out to be nothing but hocus-pocus.' She slammed her book shut and placed it on the pile with the others. 'I hope you have completed the French homework assignment I set you. We have ten minutes until class. I suggest we both get a move on.' She didn't stop to wait for a response, and the next time he saw her was when she was standing at the front of her French class, explaining the use of possessive adjectives.

When the lesson was over, she was the first to leave the class, breezing past him without giving him the most cursory of glances. Snape was the last to leave; he left the classroom undaunted by her earlier rebuttal. The subject had been broached, and he knew she would think of little else until he saw her again. He had disconcerted her, and he meant to do it again. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Wizarding forms of transport may be quicker than their Muggle counterparts—they are certainly more spectacular —but Portkeys and broomsticks, for all their flamboyance, could not match train travel for comfort and time-wasting. It was not merely as a wish to make use of their creativity that wizarding society had taken inspiration from the Muggle world's genius for getting groups of people from one place to another. Not that Snape—who was returning from a meeting with one of his suppliers of bezoars and scarab beetles—had an abundance of spare moments to while away, but he had come to realise that train-travel, like potion-making, facilitates meditation beyond everything else. Perhaps the rhythmic, repetitive nature of the experience induces a trance-like state or maybe the tedium forces introspection, but whatever the reason, Snape enjoyed train journeys.

The Thursday evening late-night train from London to Carlisle was often almost vacant by the time it had passed Crewe, and Snape had the satisfaction of finding himself in sole possession of a table and four seats. He had just been deliberating on his lack of contact with the elusive Rachael Saunders since their library conversation, when the familiar screech of brakes signalled the approaching station. He had been wondering whether or not it was time to report back to Minerva and declare his mission a failure: Rachael had been going to great lengths to elude him over the past ten days, beyond their unavoidable classroom communication, and Snape was beginning to wonder if she had simply repressed her magical experience out of fear and uncertainty. If so, it would need another accidental event to entice her to believe in her own powers, and beyond engineering such a circumstance himself, Snape knew that it could be months before it happened again. The train came to a final halt, and Snape peered through the window towards the lengthening shadows of evening, barely able to make out the name of the inconsequential town or its three or four boarders who were waiting on the platform to invade his pleasant solitude. The door at the end of his carriage opened to reveal an elderly woman and two men who found seats fortunately far enough away to avoid being scowled at by a reclusive wizard with little tolerance for unwelcome passengers. He was about to turn his attention back to the descending dusk and the warm summer evening when a fourth passenger entered the carriage and made her way down the aisle.

Rachael Saunders was dressed for an evening on the town. Her flimsy blue summer dress revealed a great deal more leg than her teaching wardrobe had ever allowed, and her strappy high-heeled sandals were presenting her with quite a challenge as the train set in motion with a crank and a whirr of wheels and pistons. She spotted him at the precise moment he had noticed her entrance, but rather than find a convenient seat to hide at the front as he expected, she smiled broadly and made her way over to him.

'Hello,' she said, flopping down in the seat opposite and dumping her small black evening bag and cardigan on the table.

'Hello,' he replied.

'I didn't expect to see you on this train.'

'Likewise.'

Her pink lipstick was smudged a touch, and her hair, which was now disturbingly lacking in the trade-mark Granger kink—apparently by design—was tucked behind her ears. A faint aroma of juniper and jasmine seemed to cross the air between them. She leaned back against the headrest, as if she had arrived home after a long day's toil, and watched him from a dreamy haze.

'I've been out,' she said.

'So I see.'

'With friends.'

He nodded an acknowledgment.

'One friend, actually.' She picked up her cream-coloured cardigan and draped it inelegantly around her shoulders. 'Not really a friend... a date.'

'Oh.'

She sighed and turned her attention to the outside world as it hurried by like a Victorian picture carousel. He watched her closely, waiting for her to continue, but she seemed disinclined for any further conversation as she focused on factories, warehouses, fields and trees, lost to her own reverie. A strand of hair fell in front of her face, and Snape considered the possibility that she may have fallen asleep.

They had stopped at a further two stations, letting on three more passengers, before she remembered that she had a travelling companion and a listening ear for her thoughts. 'It was a disaster,' she said.

'What was?'

'The date.'

He had no idea what response was necessary for this kind of information, or if indeed she required one at all. He decided to play it safe and allow her to speak as she pleased.

'Twenty-seven and still single, how sad is that?' she declared.

'I'm considerably older than twenty-seven and still single, so you will forgive me if I don't offer you my sympathies.'

She turned to look at him and giggled. 'What a sad pair we are.' After a moment she stopped smiling, and he almost faltered under the directness of her attention. She seemed to be attempting to work something out, but whether it was Hermione Granger's unconscious mind offering up a distant recognition, or Rachael's attempts to make a study of his features, he couldn't say. Her eyes moved over his face, travelling with disconcerting fearlessness from his forehead to his nose before resting on his mouth and returning to his eyes. 'Have you ever been in love, Severus?'

The question took him by surprise. She was clearly the worse for wear; he knew she would never normally be so direct, but it took the blunt, careless probing of an intoxicated woman to make him realise that the question had never been put to him before. If it had been asked of him ten or twenty years ago, he would have answered with venomous sarcasm for his denial. No one back then would have dared to speak to him of such things; he had no comrade or confidante to share burdens with, and he had convinced himself that he wanted none. Yet there had been times, during those long and dark days of servitude, when he had taken time out from his chivalrous, Lily-centric mission just to revel in self-pity—annihilatingly delicious self-pity. But ten years of freedom gives a man a different perspective on life.

'Yes,' he said.

'Was she pretty?'

'Yes.'

Rachael smiled. 'Did you marry her?'

'No.'

She pouted—partly to herself and partly in response to his unambiguous answer. 'What was her name?'

When he did not immediately answer, she suddenly seemed to recall herself. 'Sorry…none of my business.' She leaned forward and whispered loudly. 'I've had a bit too much to drink.'

'So I gather.'

'Sorry, I shouldn't be prying.'

'It was a very long time ago.'

She fiddled with the clasp on her bag, as if it would provide her with an answer to some internal dilemma. 'So what happened to her?'

Snape deliberated on her innocent question. He wasn't even sure about how much Hermione Granger had been aware of the truth. Perhaps she had disappeared too soon to be aware of all the sordid details which had been made public once the hearings and trials began. Or perhaps she had already been regaled of the general gist by Harry. It was almost tempting to blurt out the truth and stand back for the inevitable shocked reaction. _I betrayed her, and she died at the hands of an evil dark lord, defending her son. I spent the next seventeen years atoning for my mistake_.

He held her gaze. 'She married someone else.'

Rachael pursed her lips thoughtfully. 'Did you ever tell her you loved her?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'She did not feel the same way.'

'How could you be so sure?'

'I was sure.'

Rachael sighed and rested her head against the cool glass pane. 'Malheureux en amour,' she murmured. Snape did not need to reach for his French/English dictionary to mentally translate her words as _unlucky in love_ , or something to that effect. He grimaced at the small part played by luck in the events of his love life, and the bigger part played by his own disastrous choices. Rachael seemed about to add something else to her pensive statement when two high pitched bleeps, followed by another two, sounded from somewhere inside her bag. She leaned forward. 'Is that you or me?'

'It certainly isn't me.'

She delved a hand inside her bag and fished around for the source of the noise. She pulled out her small black phone and slid up the lid unleashing a soft glow. 'It's from him,' she explained, reading her message.

'The disaster?'

She nodded and let out a scornful snort as she replied. 'He says he had a lovely evening and wants to know if I'm free on Saturday.'

'Not disastrous for him then?'

'Which shows how utterly self-absorbed he is. We had nothing in common and when he wasn't staring at my cleavage, he spent the evening telling me all about his car.'

Snape had been spending the last fifteen minutes attempting _not_ to look below her neck-line, but her low-cut dress was providing a challenge for that particular resolution. Her expressive eyes were his salvation; they kept his focus with surprising ease. He had never noticed how well-defined they were when she was Hermione Granger nor even noticed that they were the precise colour of fallen oak leaves. 'What a fascinating man,' he replied.

'He even has a name for his stupid car. He referred to it as 'Betsy' all evening. When he told me that he and Betsy would take me home, I thought his bloody Nan was about to turn up. Who calls a car 'Betsy'?'

Snape would not have put it past Sirius Black to have some cool nickname for that ridiculous motorbike he used to be so proud of. And he would have bet Galleons on the probability that James Potter did the same for his broomstick. 'Does he name _all_ his inanimate objects?' Snape asked.

Rachael snorted loudly. 'Probably. Hector the hairdryer... Freddy the fridge-freezer.' She began tapping rapidly at the phone, her brows knitted in concentration. After a few moments of frustrated failures, she slid the lid shut and gave up. 'Too tired,' she said. 'I can't concentrate; I'll tell him to bugger off tomorrow when I can think straight.'

'Will he be expecting a rejection?' asked Snape, not giving a shit whether her erstwhile date reacted with a shrug or a mental breakdown.

'I doubt he's given it a moment's thought, and I'm beyond caring.'

'No doubt Betsy will soften the blow.'

'Well she _does_ have leather upholstery, silver alloy wheels, and an adjustable chassis.'

'I have no idea what that means.'

'Neither do I.'

The train came to a grinding halt at the next station and allowed two people off and one on. Snape knew the next stop was Rachael's and that they had perhaps ten minutes of conversation left. He was unlikely to get such a perfect opportunity to broach the subject of her magical abilities again. Circumstances like these did not happen on a daily basis: she was tipsy, receptive, and giving him her full attention; he must risk her resentment and revisit the topic of her "research". Some subtle reference would be enough, but he must do it quickly before the opportunity was gone.

She had been giving him furtive sidelong glances as she stared out of the window, but as the train set off from the station, she turned her full attention back to him.

'I hope you won't take this the wrong way,' she said coyly.

'Is it my French accent you have issue with?'

She giggled. 'No, your French accent is rather good.' She took a breath as if delaying the inevitable, then spoke rather quickly on her exhalation. 'I've had several dreams about you lately.' Her cheeks coloured and she paused, waiting for a reaction. When all she received was a raised eyebrow, she continued. 'Strange dreams... which is saying something because I've had a lot of those, too.'

'Should I be worried?' he replied, thanking the gods that his pathetic efforts were not needed. If he was beginning to invade her subconscious mind in the form of unsettling dreams of the wizarding world, there was a good chance she was beginning to make connections.

'I don't think so.' She smiled. 'I've been having a lot of funny dreams lately, but the ones with you in them have been different.'

'In what way?'

'More... tangible.'

'Can you be more specific?'

'In my dreams, you are _my_ teacher.' She gave him a challenging look. 'I know what you're going to say: it's because I found out that you _are_ a teacher, but that explanation seems too... well, in the dream it feels very real.'

'Dreams often seem more like reality than wakefulness.'

'Yes, but this was different.'

'How so?'

'You were speaking in French for one thing.'

'Then you really were dreaming: you've heard my French.'

Rachael smiled and shook her head. 'You were rather... intimidating too.'

He snorted. 'That doesn't sound like me.'

Rachael grinned and sat upright. She furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes. ' _Will we be learning any actual French words_?' she said, deepening her voice in a passable imitation of his.

'You didn't _seem_ particularly intimidated,' he replied, smiling at her audacious behaviour. 'Infuriated, yes. Intimidated, no.'

'Is there a difference?'

'Of course. The first gives you spirit, the second takes it away.'

'Well, I must be a better actor than I thought. Since you joined the class, I spend most of the time quaking and praying you don't interrupt.'

'And I thought I was a model student.'

'Anything but.'

Snape was surprised to note that there was no regret in her last statement. She seemed perfectly content to have an insurgent amongst her student ranks—or perhaps the alcohol was fuelling her tolerance for mutinous pedants.

'You said I spoke French in your dream. Do you remember what I said?'

'Yes,' she said, 'very clearly. Though I don't know what it meant.'

The familiar ear-splitting sound of metal on metal filled the carriage.

'My stop,' said Rachael, grabbing her bag and rising to her feet.

'Mine too,' Snape lied; he wanted to prolong the conversation now it had got so very interesting. 

Snape and Rachael walked side by side along a dark, dimly lit walkway which led from the station platform, to the streets beyond.

'I didn't know you lived in Heyford. Which bit?' she asked. He named a street from the top of his head and hoped she wouldn't pin him down for a precise location.

'I don't know it. I live in Inglewhite Avenue,' she replied. 'Do you know it?'

He knew it very well; he'd spent a week in the vicinity during the spying phase of _Operation Bring Back Granger_. He gave a vague reply and told her that his home was a little further on—he would walk her to her door.

They passed through a street lined with tall Victorian town houses—once belonging to the affluent, now divided into flats and largely occupied by students and nurses from the local hospital. Rachael seemed to have forgotten her dream; she chatted uninhibitedly about the area, questioning him on his knowledge and history of it, but keener to talk about her own. When she told him that she had lived in the area for seven years, Snape wondered how her false memory had explained away her Hogwarts years and how she had spent her first few years after her encounter with the Malfoys. He asked where she had lived and gone to school as a child. Her answer was as vague as his, he noticed, and she seemed keen to return the conversation back to more current events. It occurred to Snape that her false memories were beginning to falter. The realisation persuaded him to take their tentative communication to a potentially dangerous level; he would admit what he had seen her do that evening in the French Restaurant and force a reaction. He took his chance when there was a suitable pause in her chatter. 'There's something I've been meaning to mention.'

'Oh?'

'It's about the evening in the French restaurant.'

'The night I buggered off without bothering to say goodbye and good riddance?' She grinned.

'Indeed,' he replied. 'Before you left I had gone outside for some air. Whilst I was there I happened to have full view of the passageway leading from the dining area to the bar.' He glanced over to her and saw that she was no longer smiling. 'I saw what took place.'

'Took place?' she replied, affecting ignorance.

'You prevented a potentially harmful accident by controlling the contents of your drinks tray... With your mind.'

She laughed affectedly. 'You must have had more wine than I thought that night.'

'It's useless to deny it. I saw the incident very clearly. There were no other witnesses if that's what is troubling you.'

She carried on walking but her pace had slowed down, and he could see that she was trying to control her breaths as if his words had caused great emotional turmoil. He waited for her to reply—either a further denial or tears of anguish. He realised that there was a very good reason why Muggleborns are informed of the real nature of their power at such a young age. The youthful mind is far more receptive to the incredible and the inconceivable—the mature brain becomes a locked door and shuns the fantastical as nothing more than gobbledygook and trivia.

 _You are a witch, Hermione_.

'Is that why you were so interested in the books I was reading in the library?' she asked, halting in her tracks and turning to look at him with accusation flaring in her eyes.

'I could see that you were looking for answers. Rachael, what happened to you is nothing to be afraid of.'

'That's easy for you to say.'

'You are not the only one with these abilities.'

She began walking again. 'You know of others?'

'Many.'

'Many? But I researched it. The documentation of this sort of stuff is negligible. There are practically no recorded incidences, and those that I found were clearly faked.'

'You won't find it in books. The people with these abilities... the people with _real_ abilities do not speak of it unless they are amongst their own kind.'

'Their own _kind_? You sound as if they are a different race of beings or something. She rounded on him, her eyes full of suspicion. 'Are you making fun of me?'

He stopped and saw in her express a mixture of expectancy, mistrust and hope. 'Your own experiences must tell you that such things are possible, and if you are able to control objects at will, then others can.'

The doubt left her eyes for a moment and she nodded slowly. 'Can you?'

'Perhaps,' he replied, smiling at her expression which was full of questions and anticipation. 'But that is a conversation for another time.

'But... I need to know. I need to know what's going on. Why? How? How far?'

Snape realised that as a boy who had known of the existence of magic from being able to walk and talk, he had never needed to ask why or how. But it hadn't been long before he had wanted to know how far. In the end, his answer had been his undoing, but he was amused to note how quickly Rachael had arrived at the inevitable question.

'A clear head is required for such discussions,' he replied. 'It is late and you have had a long evening.'

She sighed but conceded. 'You _will_ tell me though?'

'Of course.'

They walked along one street and entered another which looked almost identical.

'This is me,' she said, stopping outside the large three-story terrace he knew to be her home. 'Well, part of it anyway. I live right at the top.' She placed a hand on the gate and turned to look at him. 'Who would have thought you of all people would turn out to be so understanding.' She shook her head and laughed as if the recent conversation had not taken place. 'It feels like I went out on a date with someone and ended it with someone else.' Unexpectedly, she took a step toward him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Before he understood her intentions, she had stood on her tiptoes and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. 'A girl can't have a date without a kiss. Goodnight... _Professor_ Snape. Thank you for walking me home.'

He recovered himself sufficiently enough to mutter a goodnight. As he began to walk away, she called him back.

'Severus!'

He turned around in anticipation.

'Je pourrais vous apprendre à mettre la gloire en bouteille, à distiller la grandeur, et même à paralyser la mort.'

'I'm afraid my French is not up to a translation.'

She grinned. 'That's what you said to me in my dream.' 

Later that evening, Snape extracted the memory of their encounter and viewed it in the Pensieve— borrowed at a moment's notice and with hasty explanation from the headmistress. He concentrated on the part when she spoke his French dream-words so that he could remember them clearly. He was anxious for the translation she had impishly refused to give.

Madam Pince had retired for the evening, but the deputy-head had access to the Hogwarts' library whenever he damn well felt like it. He didn't even bother to wander up and down the aisles aimlessly searching for the book he needed; he sat at a table and used a Summoning Charm.

' _Accio_ French translation book,' brought two large tomes, hurtling through the air towards him. His wand steadied their descent and they landed softly onto the table. A little more research and a few determined scratches of quill on parchment and he had his answer. He stared at the parchment with a smile which was rarely seen and read the fragment aloud.

'I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death.'


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Two days later, during the next French class, Snape was paying little attention to the discussion on the passé composé tense; he was too engaged with his own thoughts—in particular, on the recent serendipitous encounter with Rachael. His constant presence in her life was asserting itself in her dreams. She had even recalled snatches of his first year welcome speech and showed great interest in finding out about her abilities and those who shared them—surely, it wouldn't be long before the images presented to her by her unconscious mind would force her to make even greater associations. He pictured the scene in Minerva's office. Perhaps, for once, he would allow the rest of the team to be present when he informed them that Hermione Granger had been successfully restored to her former glory and was prepared for a touching homecoming. If all went to plan, a week or two should have her ready for rehabilitation.

He had spent the past two days planning his next move. After class, he intended to stay behind and suggest walking with her to the train station where he would reveal that he, too, possessed the strange abilities she had recently discovered herself to possess. It was too early to use words like magic and witches and wizards, but he was convinced that she was now receptive enough to accept her powers. Perhaps he would even demonstrate some simple wandless magic—any self-respecting wizard with a handful of O. to his name should be able to perform a simple Levitation Charm without a wand, and though Snape could do a great deal more that, it would suffice. He would show her that it is possible to have full mastery over what she had only managed unintentionally.

The end of class could not come soon enough for Snape, but eventually, he heard the now familiar closing adieus as Rachael Saunders wrapped up her class and packed up her bits and pieces while everyone prepared to leave. Once everyone else had left, he approached the front desk.

She seemed distracted and distant again as she lifted her head; and he did not fail to notice the look of dismay in her eyes when she realised she was not alone.

'I haven't forgotten my promise,' he said.

'Promise? Oh! The other night.' She flung her bag over her arm and blew a fallen lock from her eyes. 'I should apologise. My behaviour was unprofessional... appalling. I can only imagine what you must think of me.'

'You have no need to apologise.'

'I do! I really do. I'm afraid I'd had too much to drink. I'm so sorry to have been a nuisance.' She brushed past him on her way to the door.

Snape turned to follow. 'On the contrary, if you recall, we had a rather interesting discussion... '

She turned back towards him, and he saw that once again, her face was set with resolute denial. 'I'm afraid I don't remember. But... thank you for making sure I got home safely, and I'm sorry to have put you out.'

Before he had chance to persuade her otherwise, she had reached the door, muttered another hasty apology and exited it as if she was being pursued by a pack of soul-hungry Dementors. Snape was left staring at an empty room and armed with a full understanding of the foolishness of counting your dragon eggs before they are hatched. 

The Three Broomsticks provided solace in the form of a roaring fire whatever the weather, a warm welcome by the landlady, and as much Firewhisky as a couple of hard-earned Galleons could buy. Snape was installed on his favourite bench by the fire, nursing a firewhisky, which he had been sipping for the past half hour. He sighed with relief as Madam Hooch and several other members of the teaching staff, finally called it a night and returned to Hogwarts. He knew he should be getting back too, but he was enjoying the smell of pipe and wood smoke, and the comfort of cosy familiarity too much, besides avoiding an early return to the castle just in case he happened upon a headmistress in search of a report from her deputy. He was not yet ready to admit that what had seemed to be his triumph, turned out to be barely more than his own wishful thinking. The gulf between Rachael and Hermione had appeared to be closing, but after her behaviour earlier that evening, the chasm remained as gaping as ever. He was beginning to think that Ron Weasley's ill-thought out plan had been the better idea after all. Perhaps they should simply hex her home and hope for the best. He closed his eyes and pictured the woman in the blue dress. He had intended to consider her words and expression as she had begun to accept his reassurances, but inexplicably his mind wandered to her parting words and lingered on her goodnight kiss.

He was disturbed from his reverie by a familiar voice.

'Well, this is a rare occasion. You don't visit us as often as you used to. I hope you're not forsaking me for Aberforth; I doubt you'll get as warm a welcome.' Madam Rosmerta placed a full bottle of Firewhisky in the middle of the table and showed him the two glasses she was holding. 'Mind if I join you?'

Snape remained comfortably reclined against the high-backed bench as he kicked out the chair opposite him in a gesture for her to sit. 'You're looking well, Rosmerta.'

'And you're looking troubled,' she replied, taking a seat and setting out a glass for herself and one for Snape. She poured each of them a generous measure and set down the bottle. 'What's on your mind, Severus?'

He swallowed half the contents in his glass and smiled. 'You really don't want to know.'

'A trouble shared is a trouble halved. You can tell me anything.' She glanced around the smoky snug. 'And you know it goes no further than here.' She placed a hand over her heart to indicate her sincerity.

Snape sighed. 'The usual tedium... Inter-House feuds, seventh years ill-prepared for their N.E. , dissatisfied teaching staff.'

Madam Rosmerta knocked back the contents of her own glass, poured herself another and topped up Snape's. 'You can't pull the wool over my eyes. It's something other than Hogwarts business.'

'What else could a run-of-the-mill teacher have to worry about?'

'You've never been what you might call run-of-the-mill, Severus Snape.' She sat back in her chair and gripped the wooden arm rests—the Queen of her domain. 'Perhaps it's something to do with that young girl they thought dead… Hermione Granger?'

Snape rolled his eyes in resigned exasperation. 'The best kept secret in wizarding Britain. Has Minerva been blabbing?'

'She may have said something; I don't remember who told me. Word gets around.'

'It's a wonder we won the war,' muttered Snape.

'She was a funny little thing.'

'Minerva?'

'Hermione Granger, as you well know.'

'She was a know-it-all.'

Madam Rosmerta threw him her best censorious look. 'Severus!'

'But not without talent,' he added grudgingly.

'I remember when she first came in here with her friends: Harry Potter and the Weasley boy—all frizzy hair and teeth, she was then. But she blossomed as I remember—grew up into quite a pretty girl.'

Snape shrugged. 'Perhaps.'

'You've seen her then?'

'I'm not Minerva; I don't come in here to gossip.'

She leaned forward as if to take another sip from her glass, but instead she gently placed her hand over his as it rested on the table. 'There's no need to be coy with me. We go back too far.'

He never could resist her compelling mixture of maternal affection and persuasive allure; she had been the only being to offer him the benefit of the doubt in his darkest days—an unlikely, unspoken ally. She had never turned him away. He sighed. 'Yes, I've seen her.'

'And how has she shaped up as a woman? Just as pretty?'

'I was Hermione Granger's teacher for six years. I do not notice whether my students are radiant, remarkable or repellent—in fact, to me, they all lean towards the latter.'

Rosmerta picked up her glass and swilled the contents around as she listened to his denial and laughed. 'But you are not her teacher now. She is yours.'

He let out a frustrated groan. 'Is there nothing Minerva left out?'

'She might have mentioned something about French lessons. French! The language of love.' Rosmerta grinned in the face of his trademark scowl.

'What are you trying to insinuate, Rosmerta?'

'Oh, nothing. Pretty woman in need of rescue. Tall dark stranger turns up. It sounds like a fairytale, doesn't it?' She took a small sip and watched him mischievously from over the rim of her glass.

'Then she's in for a disappointment.'

' _Is she_?' Her suggestive emphasis on the two words only served to increase his irritation.

'The girl was thought dead up until a year ago—this is about damage prevention, following forced Obliviation and exile, not some frivolous escapade.' He drained the contents of his tumbler and slammed down the empty glass. 'How do you manage to cheapen everything?'

Madam Rosmerta's smile faded and her features darkened. She rolled up her sleeves and leaned forward undaunted. 'There was a time when you found my way of "cheapening" things a comfort.' She held his gaze for a moment before allowing her smile to return and poured them both another measure. 'But perhaps I'm making you feel uncomfortable because I touched a nerve.'

'You really are deluded.'

'Maybe it's not me who's deluded.'

'If this is about why I haven't been to Hogsmeade in a while... '

'It isn't! You're a free man, you come and go as you please—no expectations, no obligations—we both know that. I'm not trying to accuse you of anything, and you know you are always welcome here, but... A little human frailty is unavoidable sometimes... Even from you, Severus.'

'Rosmerta, I appreciate your concern, but you are speaking of things about which you have no understanding.'

Madam Rosmerta smoothed out an imaginary crease from the bodice of her primrose-coloured robes and fixed him with a keen gaze. 'I _never_ speak of things I don't understand, which is why you won't catch me discussing Ancient Runes and Transfiguration theory.'

Snape smiled. 'And what are _your_ specialist subjects? The human condition and wizarding licensing laws?'

'Well that's two of 'em—I'll leave it to you to guess the third.' Her reply was accompanied by a very saucy wink which Snape chose to ignore. She smiled at his reticence. 'Live a little, Severus.'

'You are always telling me to live a little.'

'Because you never listen. When you start doing as I say, I'll stop telling you.'

'What would you have me do?'

'Something Spontaneous. Something out of character.'

He wasn't sure whether to admire or deride her comment. He was well aware that impulsive behaviour seemed to be valued, even admired by many: spontaneity is exciting, reticence is not. But he had not survived the unsurvivable by letting down his guard and engaging in hot-headed behaviour. It was his nature to be circumspect, suspicious, and mistrustful, but there was no doubt that his life as a spy had honed those traits until they had consumed him and now, ten years later, they all but defined him.

Impulsiveness was for Gryffindors.

He smiled at Rosmerta's well-meaning advice. 'Perhaps you would like me to cartwheel down Hogsmeade High Street, wearing a jester's hat and bells?'

'I would pay dearly to see that,' she replied, chuckling at the image. 'But I'm talking of matters of the heart.'

'I'm not interested in matters of the heart.'

'Well that's where you're wrong—that's the one thing everyone is interested in.' She leaned back against the smooth oak-backed chair and watched him with the smile of a woman whose wisdom transcended books and diplomas.

He knew she was right. His own history of unrequited love and self-imposed atonement made denial little more than absurd. It was public knowledge that when it came to matters of the heart, Severus Snape's limits were boundless. At least, that was Rita Skeeter's insensitive conclusion. Her trashy publication had done more damage to his reputation as an austere recluse, than killing Albus had done for his status of loyal Order member. He smiled wearily at the shrewd woman who always seemed to read him so well. 'I am content enough as I am. I never expected this kind of reprieve— the last ten years have been an exercise in extravagance in comparison to the previous ten. By rights I should be dead.'

'But you're not dead. Don't waste this life too. If your unexpected second chance taught you anything, it should be to... '

'What?'

'Seize the day, Severus. That's what the Muggles say isn't it?'

'Rosmerta, you can't force feelings that don't exist.'

'Nor should you ignore ones that do.' She poured them both another drink from the dwindling bottle. 'I'm not suggestion you force them, I'm telling you to allow yourself to have some. Be a bit more open to them.'

'I hope you're not suggesting that a courtship with Hermione Granger is something I might consider.'

Rosmerta threw back her head and laughed loudly. 'So quaint, Severus.' She knocked back another generous measure of firewhisky. 'And why in Merlin's name not?'

Snape shook his head in response to Rosmerta's ridiculous suggestion and placed a hand firmly over his glass as she attempted yet another top-up. 'Not for me, Rosmerta. I have classes tomorrow and I need to decide which student to seduce first.'

'Students are off-limits. Ex-students are not,' she replied, laughing helplessly at his exasperated scowl.

'If Minerva had an inkling of your inappropriate designs for her favourite ex-student, you would find a steady decline in trade from Hogwarts.'

'She can stick to running the school and I'll stick to... '

'Running my life?'

'Well someone has to.'

Snape smiled in response to her tenacious interference. He knew he should feel more irritated by her meddling than he did, but it felt pathetically gratifying to have someone to care enough to intrude, however fanciful her proposals were—at least her intention was well-meant.

'Does she know who you are?' Rosmerta asked.

'Her memories are returning in the form of dreams. She tells me that she dreamed I was her teacher.'

'You're having quite an impact on her then?'

'On her sub-conscious mind, perhaps.'

'And what about Muggle-Hermione? What does she think of her new student?'

Snape considered her question. A week ago his answer would have been that she found his disruptive classroom antics to be nothing short of irritating, and that she was most certainly resentful of his interference with her library research. Her behaviour on the train, however, had been much more forthcoming and gracious than he would have expected, even allowing for the fact that she was under the influence. Other men may interpret the smile of a pretty girl as evidence of partiality, but Snape did not have it in him to positively spin a little female attention into proof of affection, whatever the circumstance; his own reserved nature and experiences of rejection made sure of that. Yet her smiles seemed unaffected and her interest in him genuine—there was a small part of him, buried beneath the doubt and mistrust, which had wanted to believe in the sincerity of her notice.

'She prefers me after a couple of glasses of wine,' he replied.

Rosmerta smiled and her eyes widened. 'You've got to the socialising stage then?'

'If you can call a class outing and a chance encounter socialising... then yes. However, her opinion seems to have taken something of a nose-dive if her behaviour after class this evening is anything to go by.'

She insisted on hearing the details of all of his encounters with Hermione to date, and Snape saw no reason not to oblige her. After all, if Minerva saw fit to include Madam Rosmerta in the growing circle of those who were aware of the mission, then why shouldn't he fill her in on the details? And besides having all the discretion that came with her job title, Rosmerta always had a unique and incisive way of interpreting the world.

'It's obvious isn't it? She's clearly fighting it,' said Rosmerta once Snape had finished his account of Hermione's earlier rebuff.

'Obviously. I pushed her too hard; I should have left it for her to bring the subject up when she was ready.' Snape replied.

'Nonsense! You didn't push her hard enough. She's ready, but she needs a shove.'

'Rosmerta, you don't understand the nature of Memory Charms.'

'I most certainly do. My Aunt Flora spent two years living in Swansea as an Owl Post clerk thanks to my Uncle Wilberforce. I also understand the nature of women. She's scared, and she thinks she's found someone she could actually talk to about the strange things happening to her. But she's not sure she can trust you. You'll have to make her.'

Snape was in no mood to argue. The atmosphere was warm and pleasant and the Firewhisky was having an agreeably drowsy effect on his senses. He sighed thoughtfully and sipped on the remaining dregs left in his glass. 'Not that I'm agreeing with you, but perhaps the next French class on Monday will have given her time to think. I will pursue matters then.'

Rosmerta frowned. 'Or you could take the Basilisk by the fang and get things moving before then. You know where she works don't you? Why wait for Monday?'

'Rosmerta, you are a first-rate proprietor of this excellent establishment. Not only that, but you provide warmth, charm and a great deal of advice whether it is asked for or not. And occasionally that advice has been quite useful. However, I have to insist on being allowed to conduct this particular task alone and as I see fit, as I believe I am uniquely experienced and qualified for the job. I would never take it upon myself to advise you on the best way to store your barrels of mead or arrange your bar, so please do me the honour of allowing me the same courtesy.'

'Is that a no then?'

'Emphatically.'


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Rachael was not at home. Snape's resounding raps on her front door had brought forth a weary-looking woman with a toddler and an apologetic nurse on her way to work, who assured him that Rachael was never at home during the day. Rachael was not at work. He had already checked on her classes, the library, and the refectory and discovered from a colleague in the staff room that she had phoned in sick that morning. He walked away from the tall terraced house inwardly cursing Madam Rosmerta for putting the idea of cornering Granger and inducing her to deny her denial into his head. He would never have admitted that he had spent the evening brewing another batch of Healing Potion just so that he could properly reflect on her suggestion. The result was a stock-cupboard full of potion and the realisation that the Three Broomstick's infuriating consultant sleuth and amateur relationship councillor was probably right.

He had barely reached the house next door to Rachael's before he heard his name being called by a voice clearly anxious to be heard. Rachael was slightly breathless by the time she caught up with him; her face was glowing from the mild exertion, and her hair, most of which was tied back in a loose band at the nape of her neck, was making a desperate bid for freedom. She shoved the wayward curls back from her face and allowed her mouth to curl up into a smile which displayed hesitation and relief.

'It _is_ you,' she said. 'I'd just nipped out to the post office. Were you looking for me?'

Snape was surprised by her eager expression, which could not have contrasted more utterly from the stubborn one she had been wearing the evening before when he had last seen her. He nodded in reply. 'I looked for you at college, but your colleague explained that you were unwell.'

'I'm fine. I haven't had time off in three years; I'm due a sick-day.' She hesitated for a moment then said determinedly, 'I had quite a lot to think about, you see. I've been going over things.' She stared at the pavement beneath her feet. 'I'm glad you came... I want to apologise for being so very...'

'Dismissive?' She gave him a rueful smile and nodded. Snape was beginning to feel hopeful. 'Has something else happened? Another incident?'

Rachael nodded again. 'You... _did_ promise to tell me what you know.'

'Your memory of that conversation has returned then?' he teased.

'I'm sorry I fobbed you off. Blame it on fear; a wish for it all to go away if I could only deny it ever happened.'

'You have an extraordinary gift. Why fear it?'

'Because I don't understand it. It makes no sense. No book explains it adequately, and I have heard of no other person who can say with any conviction that they are like me... or even know of anyone like me.' She glanced up at him. 'Except you.'

Snape contemplated her uncertainties, which were expressed so intensely in her eyes; and not for the first time wondered if rehabilitation into the world of magic was possible for a woman who had been stripped of her awareness, and with it, her receptiveness. Perhaps she would never be able to accept that her gift was magic and her true nature, a witch. 'You must have many questions.'

'Yes,' she replied. 'Isn't it strange that you turned up in my French class? Sometimes, I wonder if that is a coincidence.'

The street was becoming a thoroughfare for people on their way to the local park or into the town centre. Dog-walkers and kids with footballs passed them as they stood together in mutual uneasiness, their conversation becoming less private with each passing moment.

'We have things to discuss,' said Snape.

'Do you have time now? Perhaps we could walk to the park?' 

They passed through the tall wrought-iron gates which signalled the entrance to the town's main park, and walked along a winding path lined with green leafy shrubberies, neatly-mown lawns, and picnicing families broken up with vibrant parades of regimented flower beds.

They had walked in virtual silence from their point of origin outside Rachael's house, which gave him time to go over the conversation they were soon to have—of how much to reveal, of the best way to approach it, and of how she was likely to react. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the path ahead of them as they made their way to the park, but his peripheral vision had picked up on her occasional sidelong glances, as if she was daring herself to say something, then choosing the easy option of remaining as uncomfortably silent as he.

Snape had allowed her to lead the way. He was supposed to be a native of this town and therefore familiar with all its streets, avenues, alley-ways, nooks and crannies. His guide took them through the meandering walkways of the park he was also supposed to be well acquainted with, towards a less cultivated, wooded area beyond the landscaped formality of the main section.

'There's a quiet place by the lake,' Rachael told him, breaking the silence at last. 'I call it my thinking spot—I go there mostly to read.'

'Lead on,' Snape replied.

Rachael's thinking spot was only accessible by pushing through a thick shrubbery of wayward rhododendrons and cautiously picking a route down a grassy embankment which sloped into a small natural cove just large enough to admit three or four misshapen rocks. The rocks were the perfect height and shape to provide adequate seating for a determined visitor. Once there, Rachael clambered onto one of the "seats" and arranged herself comfortably, while Snape merely leaned against the taller one, waiting for her to settle.

' _Is_ it a coincidence?' asked Rachael. He raised his eyebrows in a questioning response. 'You being in my class? I'm not sure I believe in coincidences.'

'I told you: there are many others with these abilities. Surely you should be questioning why you haven't come across someone else before.'

Rachael picked up a fallen twig and began picking at the withering leaves absent-mindedly. 'I sort of like the idea of it just being the two of us better.' She broke off a leaf and allowed it to fall to the floor, then looked up at him and smiled. 'I have the stupidest thoughts sometimes. Maybe it's the dreams, but I feel a... ' She broke off part of the stick and threw it into the lake. '... connection.'

Once again, Snape cursed Rosmerta for sowing the seed of optimism into a mind which had cultivated self-protection so thoroughly. Because surely, it could only be her words of futile encouragement which now prompted him to hear Rachael's declaration with a murmur of something that felt like pleasure. Suddenly, he didn't want her to remember everything—to understand what her abilities truly meant, to reunite with her old friends, to transform back into Hermione Granger. Once she did that, Rachael would be lost forever. This gifted young woman without full understanding and on the brink of discovering her powers, could be his to guide and support. She knew him only as her student turned confidante: she did not fear him, or despise him. There was no agenda beyond a wish to share their secret powers and to learn all she could from him. The realisation of what Rachael could mean to him was almost too much to contemplate. The potential for true fulfilment was within his grasp, yet he knew it was impossible: there were a host of Weasleys, a couple of Potters, the Hogwarts' teaching staff, and an interfering proprietor of the Three Broomsticks eagerly waiting for her return. Keeping her to himself was a foolish and futile dream—dwelling on it was nothing more than the behaviour of a flagellant.

'We share something unique,' he replied.

'Yes. But, it's more than that. There is a familiarity about you. I felt it before you told me of your abilities.' She drummed the stick against the surface of the rock. 'I had another dream. You were my teacher again. Only this time you... ' She gazed at him thoughtfully before evidently changing her mind. '... It was just a dream.'

'Only this time I what?'

She shook her head. 'Nothing. It doesn't matter.'

From her expression and refusal to continue, he gathered that the dream was not complimentary. Perhaps this time she had begun to dream of the Snape she had left behind; the Snape who she believed to be a murderer and a traitor. It was quite possible that her memory would return in full soon enough, and when it did, would she fear him as her enemy again? If he could secure Rachael's trust before that happened, maybe there was a chance that Hermione would believe in him too.

'Tell me about the recent incident you mentioned,' he said.

Rachael looked up at him and smiled. 'It was different this time. The other times were accidental—in response to a dangerous situation or because I was feeling emotional. I think. This time it was neither of those things. It happened last night, and I think it was just because I wanted it to happen. Does that make sense?' She asked anxiously.

'Perfectly. Go on.'

'I just wanted something, and I couldn't be bothered getting it. I was busy marking some appalling homework, and I wanted to check something from my text book which was on the top shelf of my bookcase. I stared at it and just wished it would come to me, instead of me having to fetch it. And then... it did. It just wobbled a bit at first, and I couldn't quite believe it, so I concentrated like mad and it came right out from its place on the shelf all by itself and fell on the floor at my feet.'

Snape recalled the first time she had brewed an accurate potion in his class—a boil-cure potion which Neville Longbottom had managed to ruin, and Potter and Weasley had failed at the ingredient-adding stage. Hermione Granger's eyes had shone with pride at her success, and he had been vindictively irritated by her pride which, in his opinion, was unnecessarily nurtured by the other teachers. He recalled ignoring her beaming smile as she handed him her perfectly brewed concoction; he had rewarded Pansy Parkinson's adequate efforts with House-points instead. She wore the same expression now as she recounted her achievement. This time, he wished he still had the ability to award House-points: Gryffindor would be fifty points better off. He merely smiled at her instead. Her reluctant enjoyment of her power was palpable.

'Is that normal for... our kind?' she asked hopefully.

'Your skill is advanced,' he replied. 'Most would require some tuition and practice to manage such intentional control.'

She beamed like Hermione Granger on exam results day. 'It felt so exhilarating—like something inside me wanted to burst out and break free. I thought I should be scared of it, but I wasn't. Is that how it is? Is that how it was for you?'

He could not in all good conscience say that it ever was like that for him; magic had been with him for as long as he could remember. There had been times when he wished he could take it further than wizarding society laws and conventions would allow him to. The opportunity to stretch his limits had eventually arisen in the form of his Slytherin cronies and a consummate tyrant. But none of his experiences of Dark magic and its equally dark rewards could compare to the privilege of being part of Rachael's magical awakening.

'I discovered my abilities at an early age,' he admitted. 'My mother also possessed them.'

'They are passed on genetically?'

'Usually.'

'And your father?'

'No!'

'It must have been hard for him,' she replied. 'He must have felt... inadequate.'

Snape had never considered that his father's hatred of magic was spawned from a feeling of impotence in the face of his wife and his son's powers. It didn't lessen his father's ruthless spite, but it made it a little more palatable.

'He never really accepted it.'

'Oh!' She replied, watching him carefully as if she wanted to know more. 'I suppose that was hard on you and your mum then?'

'Indeed it was,' he admitted. 'But what of _your_ parents?'

She dropped her gaze and concentrated on shredding what was left of the wretched stick now covering her jeans in obliterated pieces of wood. 'I never knew them. For all I know, they may have had these abilities. My mum died having me and my dad died shortly afterwards. I was brought up by various elderly relatives. Also dead. So, I'm a bit thin on the ground when it comes to family.'

Snape wondered how she would react when she discovered that her parents were alive and well and living in blissful ignorance in Australia. 'My parents are dead too.'

'Something else we have in common,' she said as she brushed the bits of minced stick from her lap.

Snape nodded. 'Are you ready?'

'Ready?'

'To demonstrate.'

'Now?'

'Why else would we fight our way through the wilderness to find a secluded spot?'

'I'm a little nervous.'

'Don't be.'

'What if I can't do it again?' He did not miss the edge of panic to her voice. 'What if it was just a freak accident?'

He smiled at her indulgently. 'why don't you try something simple first?' He picked an oak leaf from a nearby tree and placed it in the palm of his hand. 'Summon the leaf,' he commanded.

He watched as she prepared herself mentally. Her brows were creased in concentration and she stared hard at his outstretched hand, focusing on the leaf so intently he half expected his hand to cross the void between them along with the leaf. It seemed as if minutes had passed before he felt a gentle fluttering in his hand and the familiar tingling intensity of magic, as it found its target and enveloped the leaf in an unseen presence. The quiver became a discernible jolt, before the leaf seemed to gather a will of its own. It rose from his hand, soared above his head and floated resolutely on invisible wings across the gap which separated Snape from Rachael. She held out her hand as it floated gently onto her palm.

'I did it!' She stared at the leaf as if it was a wondrous thing to behold. 'I really did it.'

'Of course you did,' he replied, unable to prevent himself from smiling at her elation.

'Does it get easier with practice?' She wanted to know.

'Considerably easier. And you will be able to manage more adventurous feats. But it will never become truly a part of you until you acquire the means to harness your... energy,' he explained.

In contrast to her earlier declaration of fear, she now seemed so accepting of her magic, so intoxicated by the power of her ability, that he believed she would be receptive enough to hear it all without expectation of a serious relapse. But he told himself that she still wasn't ready; she needed more time to get used to the idea, to practice her art and truly feel it was as essential to her make-up as the blood running through her veins and the breath in her lungs.

She would need a wand to hone her skills. He was already working out how to get hold of one for her; it wouldn't respond as well as her own had, but a gift-wand could be procured from Ollivander. The records of all the students and their individual wand details were in the Hogwarts' library. He could find out the exact wood, core and size of her original and obtain something close from the wand-maker. But first, she must be carefully introduced to the idea of wands.

Rachael let the leaf fall from her palm and looked up at him. 'Harness the _energy_? What does that mean?'

Snape reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out the object he had been concealing. She stared at the ornately-carved ebony piece with evident fascination.

'It's a wand, isn't it?' she said. He nodded, relieved to find that her interest was not going to extend to any histrionic assertion that wands were for entertainers and magicians only.

'It is a specially crafted object through which we are able to transmit energy from our thoughts and imagination in order to manipulate objects. With full mastery of a wand, our abilities become enhanced beyond anything you may imagine.'

Rachael's eyes were bright with excitement as she listened to him. 'May I?' she asked.

He rarely allowed anyone to handle his wand; it was an essential part of his being—another limb, his very breath. When Voldemort had confiscated Lucius's so brutally, he had felt no pity for him, but the reminder of how _he_ would react in Malfoy's position had made him feel physically sick. He hesitated for a moment before placing it in her hands. He was thankful for her reverence. She didn't examine it too closely, nor did she ask who had made it, or how long he had owned it; she simply allowed it lie in her hands as if she was guessing its weight.

'I can feel it,' she said softly. 'The energy or whatever it is. Like an invisible force waiting to be commanded.'

It felt strangely stirring to watch her experience the remnant emissions of his magic contained in his wand. The moment felt significant, as if he was allowed to be part of something sacred and profound. Lily had already accepted her magic when he had found her, he was the one to give it a name and to tell her about wizarding ins and outs, but this was different: Rachael was unearthing her powers and her potential before him—her first uneasy steps of revelation, like a fledgling falcon, discovering its wings.

She looked up at him and smiled as she handed it back. 'Well, I think it's time you showed me what it can do.'

A simple Levitation Charm seemed too tame and unexciting now. She had shown herself to be capable of acknowledging more than a floating leaf. It had been a long time since he had been given free-reign to show-off, and the opportunity was too enticing to resist. He pointed his wand at the leaf she had dropped to the ground only moments before and muttered an incantation. The leaf drifted upwards at his command, then stopped. Another spoken word and it split into two, then four, and eight, and sixteen, until the rate of multiplication was so accelerated that leaves seemed to materialize from the air around them—a cloudburst of summer leaves, falling like confetti onto the ground, rocks, lake-side, and even on Rachael, covering her shoulders, hair and the rock where she remained seated. Leaves cascaded all around them, until they were ankle-deep where he stood. They spilled in a relentless torrent of nature unleashed onto the shallow water which lapped gently onto the shore.

Rachael gaped around her as they fell, slowing down their descent until they stopped completely before her eyes. She shook her head to loosen the leaves there and slowly eased herself into a standing position so that more fell to the ground forming a huge pile of greenery. Snape lowered his wand and watched her face carefully, concerned by the expression of absolute shock in her eyes. He could see at once that he had gone too far in his eagerness to impress, and now she would retreat into her shell of denial once more. Before she could open her mouth to express the anxiety clearly shown there, he flicked his wand and banished the charm so that the leaves vanished without trace. All around them was just as it had been moments before his spell.

Rachael lifted her head slowly and her eyes met his. She opened her mouth to speak, but evidently felt unable to form words as she closed it again and instead dropped her gaze to his wand. She blinked hard and took a deep breath.

'Then suddenly her face split into a grin. 'You call it harnessing energy?' she said. 'I'd call it magic.' 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Rachael made remarkable progress during the following week, in which time he saw her every evening but one. On Tuesday—their first meeting since the lakeside—they stayed behind after class. Rachael had barely been able to contain herself before the final student exited the classroom. She had pushed a chair up against the door-handle and dimmed the lights to a muted glow. Snape made a mental note to explain how such things could be achieved by simply willing them so.

'I didn't sleep a wink last night,' she said.

'At least you were spared from dreaming about me again.'

Rachael grinned and walked to the front of the classroom where she eased herself up onto her desk. 'All I could think about was the thing you did—the magic thing. You said a word before it happened. Is that important?'

'Yes. The word is an incantation; it must be spoken before performing the...' Snape paused.

 _What to call it?_

Rachael had accepted that their abilities were magical acts without question. He had expected a bitter rejection of such a fantastical concept: she had proven herself to be pragmatic and realistic, not given to flights of fancy or whimsical notions, despite her recent experiences. Yet it was almost as if witnessing his spell had prompted a remembrance of magic, if not the details of her own history.

His dilemma was now around the language he should use when discussing their abilities: the real words or some feeble euphemism? He made up his mind to trust in her newfound acceptance.

'... before performing the _spell_ ,' he explained.

She didn't even raise an eyebrow in response, but merely nodded, waiting eagerly for him to explain how it was done.

'So, the wand is a conduit, and the incantation is the prompt?' she responded.

'Exactly. Each spell has its own incantation.' He held up his wand and muttered the word, 'Lumos' to demonstrate. 'Performing a spell requires forethought, focus and fortitude, which naturally requires effort, but over time, and with a great deal of practice, it will become as natural as breathing.' He pointed his wand at the whiteboard which filled much of the wall behind Rachael's desk. She turned to watch as the three words appeared across the board apparently scripted by an invisible hand.

'Will I ever be able to master it as well as you?' she asked.

Snape smiled at her enchanting naiveté—soon to be lost forever once her memories returned to her consciousness. 'There is more to magic that writing on walls and multiplying leaves, Rachael. I have no doubt that you will be able to perform such mundane spells, but I am more ambitious for you than that.'

She slid down from her desk and walked towards him, stopping only when she was close enough for him to catch her scent. He detected cinnamon and something pleasingly floral this time. In the half-light, it was so easy to forget that Hermione Granger stood before him. He could almost believe that Rachael's eyes were darker than Hermione's: her eye-lashes were more defined; their expression, expectant and fearless, where Hermione's had been anxious and troubled. Her hair behaved differently too; it fell about her face softly when she wore it down as if it no longer felt the need to curl and frizz so haphazardly. Even her lips were altered. Rachael smiled at him with an easiness which seemed to speak of her pleasure in finding a kindred spirit in him.

It didn't matter if he was delusional; he felt the warmth of her admiration and her awe just as intensely whether it was real or imagined. She was so close to him now that it would be effortless to reach out a hand and touch her hair. Perhaps she wouldn't recoil in horror, perhaps she would let him. He felt the tingling sensation of her lips pressed against his cheek as the memory of her goodnight kiss came unexpectedly to the fore. He had stopped himself from dwelling on such a simple, meaningless gesture most of the time; but when he lay in bed at night, in the trance-like state of semi-wakefulness when the mind is too vulnerable to resist, too often, he had fallen asleep with the recollection of her lips against his cheek.

She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for the answer to a question he was likely to savour long after she stopped being Rachael Saunders, the Muggle French teacher.

'You will be a formidable witch,' he replied, before he had considered the wisdom of moving so quickly from magic and spells to the most incredible word of all.

She merely laughed. 'Witch? I like the sound of that. But if I'm a witch, you're a wizard, Severus.'

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. 'A witch without a wand is like a dragon without fire.'

'But how can I practice spells without one?' she asked.

Snape stifled the urge to gently smooth the perturbed creases from her achingly youthful forehead.

Instead he held out his wand in both hands. 'A wand will never perform as well for someone else,' he told her. 'But you may practice with mine.' She seemed to know that it took some effort to share an object so sacrosanct when she took the offered wand.

He remembered his own first lesson in Charms, when Professor Flitwick had taught the class how to properly control the movements for each spell and charm. It had been easier for him than most of his fellow pupils—controlling his magic had never been a struggle. He took back his wand from Rachael and demonstrated the correct way to hold it. She listened intently as he told her to imagine it as an instrument of her will while simultaneously wielding the wand with a sequence of swishes and flicks. The empty glass levitated six inches above the table at his command of ' _Wingardium Leviosa_ ', then returned to its stationary position, once more, as he lowered his wand.

'Your turn,' he said, handing the wand to Rachael. 'Remember, the glass is yours to command. It has no free will; you are its mistress. You must believe in your power and your ability to dominate the object. Do as I did and state the incantation with purpose and authority.'

Rachael showed no signs of reserve or trepidation as she gripped the wand and pointed it at the object. Her first attempt smashed the glass into a thousand tiny pieces without it even rising an inch.

'Merlin!' she yelled in exasperation.

Snape was startled by her sudden use of a wizarding expletive. He realised that the more they practiced magic, the closer they were to reaching full memory return. He tried to suppress the feeling of panic that the reminder prompted in him—instead, he smiled at her look of disappointment.

'A little less enthusiasm next time, perhaps,' he suggested, taking back his wand and demonstrating a Reparo charm. She smiled with relief as the broken shards rearranged themselves to form a perfectly repaired glass. On her second attempt, the glass left the table as if it had been shot from a catapult; it hit the ceiling and shattered on impact. She let out an exasperated cry and stamped her foot in self-disgust.

'Better,' he said, amused by her outburst. 'Next time, even less... authority. Self-discipline is an essential component of control over your magic. Your power is unquestionable, but you must also learn restraint. And remember that you are using a borrowed wand. My wand will never perform as well for you as your own would. Try again.'

She sighed and nodded before turning to make her third attempt. Snape found himself drawn to her eyes as they focused on the object and the spell. He was alarmed by how much pleasure he could derive from simply observing the animation and spirit held within their gaze. He wondered if anyone else had ever noticed it, or was he the only one to truly appreciate their radiance?

'Wingardium Leviosa!' she commanded. The glass soared high into the air, hovered for a moment, then returned to the table at some speed where it landed with a clatter, but at least remained intact. Rachael turned to Snape and beamed. 'I did it! I actually did it.' She frowned as she handed back his wand. 'But your wand felt... _reluctant_. Does that sound stupid?'

'An accurate description. This wand's allegiance is to me; it will perform for another witch or wizard, but never well.'

'Can we practice more tomorrow?'

He smiled at her intoxicating enthusiasm and knew at once that the situation, for him, was hopeless. He could no longer deny it: he had come to look forward to Rachael's company more than he could ever have anticipated. He thought of her often. Marking homework made him wonder if she was similarly employed, and as he put quill to parchment, he imagined her at home, scribbling French corrections with her blue pen on white paper. He thought of her, too, as he taught his Slytherins and Gryffindors—he remembered her admonishments over his teaching style when they had conversed in the French restaurant. Her words would come back to him as he mercilessly reproached his first years for their carelessness. And as he lay in bed at night, he thought of her drunken giggles and the bold interest she had shown him the evening they met on the train. He lingered on the fall of her blue dress and the twist of her hair, and he now found it impossible to fall asleep without attempting to recall her light floral fragrance. He had forgotten what it felt like to anticipate something with pleasure. Anticipation for him had always been coupled with dread. Rachael had become his expectation of contentment. But the more time he spent with her, the sooner she would remember. Once that happened, Rachael was lost.

Her loss was inevitable, he realised as she looked at him eagerly.

'Of course,' he replied. 'Practice is essential.'

The next two evenings were also spent in the French class, practicing charms. By the end of their third session, Rachael had become proficient at controlling the Levitation Charm; she had mastered the Summoning charm, and had also managed a Reparo—much to her delight. Their conversation had inevitably turned towards what else could be achieved with their magical powers, and when Snape gave her a brief explanation of Transfiguration, she had begged him to demonstrate.

She clapped her hands with delight when he pointed his wand at a chair and changed it into an excitable black and white border-collie who ran around the classroom and knocked over the waste-paper bin before Snape turned it back.

'We must be the luckiest people in the world,' she proclaimed, her eyes shining with delight.

Snape smiled at her exhilaration. 'There is nothing more satisfying than discovering the extent of your powers, but as I told you, there are many more who...' he stopped in response to the frown which had appeared on her face.

'Who cares about them?' she said. Her eyes seemed to implore him not to continue, and at that moment, he wished they really were the only two magical beings in the world, and he couldn't help offering up a silent, treasonous thank you to Lucius Malfoy for Obliviating Hermione Granger and leaving Rachael Saunders in her place. She would be glad to remember her friends and the wizarding society that had been taken away from her, soon enough; but for now, he would enjoy her shared wish for their isolation.

'We don't need to consider the others yet,' he replied.

Rachael smiled. 'Good. When can I have a go at Transfiguration?'

'With a borrowed wand? Never. Transfiguration is too dangerous and precarious. Besides, we have many other charms and spells to work on first.'

Her disappointment soon disappeared. 'When? Tomorrow?'

'I'm afraid not. I have business to attend to.'

'School business?'

'Yes. But perhaps you would be free on Monday night?'

Her brow furrowed as she took the bad news. 'Two days? That's ages off.'

'I'm sure you will survive without magic for two days,' Snape replied, wondering how he would manage to last a full forty-eight hours without _her._

'I suppose so,' she conceded. 'But... I'll miss it.'

Snape would have given all the Galleons he had to hear her make the same declaration about him instead of magic.

'Until Monday, then,' he said.

She walked to her desk to gather up her bag and books. Snape noticed that she seemed to be pondering on something as she did so. On several occasions she looked up at him and seemed about to speak. Finally, she slung her bag over her shoulder and followed him to the exit door where he busied himself with cancelling the protective enchantments which had ensured their privacy.

Rachael looked up at him apprehensively. 'The classroom isn't free on Monday,' she said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. 'I was wondering if perhaps we could do something different? Meet for dinner first maybe?' She stared at his shoulder as she spoke. 'At _Chez Jules_ again? Only, it would give us chance to have a talk about magic some more. And then we could go somewhere quiet to... practice. It's only an idea though—just say if you think it's a bad one.' She glanced up at him, and he saw the faint blush in her cheeks and the uncertainty in her eyes. Without giving him the chance to answer, she continued anxiously. 'It probably is a bad idea. I just thought it would be... nice.'

He could only wonder at how slowly the hours would pass until then as he pictured the two of them in the restaurant together—she in her blue dress, grilling him on his knowledge of magical things and perhaps sharing a bottle of wine. How could she doubt his answer?

'I look forward to it,' he replied, smiling as he watched relief light up her face. Her smile remained with him for the rest of the evening and into most of the next day. 

'Your time is up.' Snape slammed down the quill he had been using to mark second-year Hufflepuff essays and peered, hawk-like, around the Potions classroom. 'Stop what you are doing and stand away from your cauldrons while I examine whatever catastrophe you have managed to create,' he instructed, rounding his desk and striding along a row of cauldrons as he considered the wisdom of setting an impromptu Monday morning potions test. 'At this half-way stage, the potion should be transparent and odourless.'

He paused at one of the cauldrons and looked inside before dipping in the ladle and scooping up copious amounts of its gelatinous, moss-coloured contents. He lifted it up to chin height, glared at the creator of the brew and allowed the slop to fall back into the cauldron with exaggerated disgust.

'McGuire, do you have some medical affliction I am not aware of which prevents you from comprehending simple English?'

'No, sir,' mumbled the fourth-year wizard, keeping his eyes firmly on the chopping board in front of him.

'Then remind me of step four, written clearly on the blackboard.'

The boy lifted his head and squinted up at the board. Snape waited as he silently read the directions as instructed. Finally, he looked back at his teacher with a shame-faced look of sudden insight.

' _When_ should you add the ground scarab beetle?' Snape enquired, his voice dangerously smooth.

'After the armadillo bile, sir,' he muttered.

'And when did _you_ add it?'

'Before the armadillo bile, sir.'

'How can you expect to pass your O.W.L.s if you can't follow simple instructions, boy?'

Greg McGuire watched mutely as Snape banished his disastrous attempts at brewing a Wit Sharpening Potion with a wave of his wand.

'There isn't a potion in the world could sharpen _your_ wits, McGuire,' he said, leaving the red-face young wizard to clear up his mess. Snape continued his examination of the rest of the class's efforts with similar sarcasm and repugnance, deducting House-points here and there as he saw fit. At the end of the row, he stopped at a table and appraised the cauldron in front of him.

'Finally,' he said, 'someone who knows the difference between _before_ and _after_. Gather round everyone.'

Twenty-four students did as bid, crowding around Snape as he ladled up the perfectly transparent concoction for all to see.

'When instructions are followed precisely, the results will also be precise. Potions, as I believe I have already mentioned, is an exact art. While enhancements may be possible for the advanced practitioner, fourth-year O.W.L students will _listen_ when I speak, _read_ whatever I tell you to read, and follow the instructions. _Do_ I make myself plain?'

'Yes, sir,' mumbled twenty-five voices in unison.

'Well done, Miss Crawford. Twenty points to Gryffindor.'

Miss Crawford beamed with pleasure while everyone else sloped back to their own cauldrons in silent resentment.

The door opened and in walked a nervous-looking boy wearing Ravenclaw robes and holding a piece of parchment. He walked slowly up to the Potions master who had returned to his desk.

Snape looked up at him as he approached and waited for the boy to speak.

'Well?' he said when it became clear that the visitor was going to remain silent. 'You are interrupting an examination. Speak up!'

The boy handed Snape the parchment. 'P-Professor M-McGonagall asked me to give you this, sir.'

Snape scowled at the stammering boy and took the note. He had managed to avoid Professor McGonagall's repeated attempts at cornering him for an update of his progress for over a week. He didn't want to be reminded by way of an official report that his time with Rachael was nothing more than an assignment. Avoidance of the inevitable discussion prolonged the necessity of admitting the stark reality of their relationship. He waved the boy away and unrolled the scroll.

 _Severus,_

I wish to see you in my office after your morning Potions class for a full report of Miss Granger's progress.

The password is perfringo.

Minerva

The inescapable moment was at hand. A direct summons could not be fobbed off with deception, avoidance, or pretending to be deaf. Snape dismissed the class and made his way to the headmistress' office.

'You wanted to see me, Headmistress?'

Professor McGonagall was seated at her desk with her hands folded in front of her, as if she had been waiting for her deputy's appearance for several minutes.

'Indeed I do, Severus,' she replied curtly. 'You promised me a weekly report.'

'I promised you a _regular_ report,' Snape reminded her. 'Not a weekly one,'

'But you haven't given regular updates; it has been over three weeks since your promise, and during that time I have heard nothing from you beyond, _all is well_ , or _it's a delicate process, Minerva_. Well, delicate process or not, there are a number of people, as you well know, who are very anxious for some information on Hermione's progress. I'm beginning to think that you're hiding something.'

Snape felt a moment of alarm at her insightful words. The idea of her guessing that his involvement in the case had become personal was unnerving. He remained silent, however, and waited as she stood from her desk and walked towards the fireplace. After a minute's contemplation, she turned to face him, concern etched across her face. 'If the case is hopeless—if there is no chance of her recovery, keeping it from us will not help. I'm sure you mean well, Severus, but I need to know.' She pointed to a chair by the fire in a request for him to sit. 'Now, let's have no more delaying tactics. I want the truth, however disappointing it may be.'

Snape's sigh of relief was imperceptible as he took a seat as bid and waited for Minerva to take hers.

'My intent was not to deceive, I can assure you,' he told her. 'Miss Granger has been making excellent progress, and though her memories have not returned in full, there are signs that they will.'

The headmistress' eyes shone with delight at Snape's good news, and he felt rather ashamed that his avoidance had misled her into believing Hermione Granger a lost cause.

'I'm pleased to hear that,' she said. 'Very pleased. The others have also been very anxious—and difficult to appease, these last few weeks, I can tell you. I will be glad to have something positive to tell them. But tell me more—what makes you think she is making progress?'

Before he could answer, they were interrupted by the familiar whooshing sound of the Floo connection. Snape turned towards the grate to see Harry Potter's head suddenly appear in the flames of the fireplace.

'Ah! Harry. There you are,' exclaimed Professor McGonagall.

'Hello, Professors,' he replied. 'Er... I was just wondering if there was any news?'

'You'd better come through, Harry,' said the headmistress.

Professor McGonagall conjured a chair with a flamboyant series of wand waves and placed it beside her own. Harry walked through the green flames, dusted off his ash-covered robes, and took a seat.

'Severus was just telling me that all is going excellently with Hermione's progress,' she told him.

Harry grinned and turned his attention to Snape. 'We were beginning to worry,' he said. 'It's almost a month now. Is she starting to remember?'

Snape knew that he needed to proceed carefully. If he admitted the extent of Rachael's increasing magical powers, he was afraid they would feel it was time to bring her back. His only hope now was Lucius Malfoy's confinement in Azkaban. Without him to reverse his spell, even if her magical ability returned, her true memories might not.

He gave a brief overview of his encounters with Rachael over the past few weeks, leaving out the fact that he found her infinitely more engaging as Rachael Saunders than she had ever been as Hermione Granger. He also omitted to tell them that he had a date with her that evening, or that he had spent most of the weekend thinking of little else.

Harry listened with obvious excitement to Snape's account of Hermione's development.

'This is exactly the news we were hoping for,' he said. 'In that case, I think it's time.'

Snape glared at him. ' _Time_ , Potter?'

Harry nodded. 'We haven't just been sitting here letting you do all the work, Professor. We've been working closely with the Ministry. It hasn't been easy. There's been so much red tape: interviews with senior Ministers, all sorts of forms to fill in, reassurances from my Auror team, and... '

'Potter! _What_ are you talking about?' Snape demanded, an icy feeling of dread grasping at his insides.

'Lucius Malfoy,' said Harry. 'We think we can get him out.'

If Snape could have groaned aloud, he would have done it. For the first time in ten years, he was experiencing the same feeling of dread he had felt when Voldemort had told Snape that the Elder wand was not performing well for him—it was the realisation that this was the end. He maintained his composure as he turned to his superior.

'Did you know about this, Minerva?'

Minerva peered at him from over the top of her spectacles. 'Yes, Severus, Harry has been keeping me appraised of all his efforts.'

'And you didn't think to tell me?'

'You didn't seem to want to _share_ information, Severus,' she replied shrewdly. 'I would have thought you'd be pleased. I can't imagine that you have enjoyed taking Muggle French classes and spending time with one of your least favourite students.'

'The time I have put into making this mission successful is of no importance. However, I would feel it to have been completely wasted if it turns out to have all been for nothing.'

'You've been brilliant, Professor Snape,' said Harry. 'But I thought this was the very best we could hope for. We, or rather... _you_ , have worked on her magic, and we have managed to get access to Lucius Malfoy, who can restore her memories. We never expected the Ministry to agree to our request to... erm... borrow Malfoy for a bit.'

'But even now, the Ministry finds it difficult to refuse anything of Harry,' interrupted Professor McGonagall, who smiled fondly at her embarrassed-looking former student.

'And what of Lucius' health?' Snape demanded. He knew what Azkaban could do to a man, and Lucius was no longer the most robust of wizards. 'He may not be in any fit state to be relied upon to meddle with Miss Granger's mind.'

'It is hardly meddling, Severus. He only has to cancel his spell. What could be simpler?' replied Professor McGonagall.

'We have been assured that he is well enough, Professor,' Harry said. 'Once we are given the official all-clear to go and get him, we will only have a few hours to take him to Hermione and make him reverse the spell before we have to return him. It will be a very small window.'

Snape tried to resign himself to the inevitability of her return. He knew that trying to prolong it was nothing more than a selfish act; it was what _he_ wanted, not what was best for Rachael. She no longer had a place in the Muggle world; her magic was too strong for her to comfortably remain within it—to maintain friends when she had so much she must now keep from them. Her place was back amongst her own people, with her old friends and all she knew and once cherished.

Once she returned, she would no longer think of him as the friend he had become—her mentor, the guide who had been with her throughout the discovery of her new and exciting powers. She would only remember all he had ever been to her: cruel, resentful... often malicious. Her opinion of him would be tainted. But it was useless to lament—they still had a little time left—he was determined to make that time count. Perhaps then, she would remember that he _could_ be a friend, someone to count on. And there was still a chance that once she knew how he had deceived her, she wouldn't think of him with too much disgust.

Snape could barely meet Harry's eyes. 'How long?'

'We hope it will be by the end of the week. Maybe Friday if all goes to plan.'

Snape nodded resignedly. 'There will be no blundering Auror delegations sent to get her,' he stated. 'If it is to happen, I will do what is necessary.'

'I think that would be for the best, don't you Harry?' Minerva replied.

Harry shrugged. 'If you like. I was hoping that I... ' He stopped when he saw the glare which allowed for no dissenting opinion. 'But you are probably right; it would be best if you did it. She does trust you, after all.'

Snape's stomach clenched with the knowledge that her trust in him would soon be lost forever. He had never shirked his duty, no matter how difficult and unpleasant, nor had he ever chosen the easy path. He could not contemplate the terror she may face if an Auror team appeared in her front room, wands at the ready. He had no faith in their diplomacy—he must be the one to take her.

'You only need to send your Patronus when it is time,' Snape replied.

Harry nodded. 'You will perhaps have half an hour to find her, Stun her, and take her to St Mungo's.'

'That won't be a problem,' said Snape wearily.

'You _will_ ... take care of her, won't you?' Harry added anxiously.

His reply was a disdainful look which both reassured and silenced him at once. Minerva beamed and conjured up three wine glasses and a bottle of something bubbly to go with them.

'I never thought I'd ever really be saying this,' she said. 'A toast! To the safe return of Hermione Granger and a mission well completed.'

'To Hermione,' repeated Harry.

Snape raised his glass. His own toast was a silent goodbye to Rachael.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Rachael smelled of sandalwood, freshly-gathered mint, and sweet anticipation. With her arms wrapped tightly around his neck it was difficult to avoid the swathes of hair which assaulted his senses. He hadn't intended to lower his head in order to experience the fragrant pleasure of her deceivingly soft curls, but some invisible force compelled him to act. With no more control than a wound-up tin-soldier, he inhaled her scent until it filled his lungs with dizzying breadth—arms stoically by his side, his self-command had not completely abandoned him yet.

 _Chez Jules_ had been quieter than when they had last met in there. She wasn't wearing the blue dress, after all, but he decided he liked the close-fitting black one even better. They had studied the menu and discussed their likes and dislikes until the waitress came over and took their order of boeuf bourguignon for Severus and bouillabaisse for Rachael.

Severus chose the wine: a rather pricey rioja which Rachael had protested at, but Severus had insisted was his treat.

Rachael had appeared more nervous than usual, at first, but once the wine and food had been ordered, she seemed to relax, and the conversation began to flow as easily as the wine.

'You know, I used to pack so much into a week,' she said, sipping slowly from her glass. 'Yoga, book club, Liberty meetings... But since you came along, I've abandoned everything.'

'I'm sorry to hear I've been such a bad influence.'

She giggled. 'I haven't missed any of it. Perhaps I only did it to fill the gap anyway.'

'I admit I have also abandoned many of my usual pursuits since we began your magic lessons.' He could see the reflection of their table-candle in her eyes as she watched him—three shimmering flames, but none as bright as her smile.

'I should be sorry,' she said. 'But I'm not. Sometimes I wonder how I existed before. It was like my life had been on hold, waiting for all this to happen.'

He considered the wisdom of Apparating them both away to some remote island where no one would ever find them. They could live in a cave and catch fish for breakfast. No Potters, no Weasleys, no Hogwarts, and no Ministry of Magic to spoil their happiness.

'I'm glad you think it changed for the better,' he said. 'You wouldn't prefer it to be back the way it was?'

'Not for all the Galleons in Gringotts,' she replied. She looked momentarily startled by her use of such unfamiliar words, but if she was concerned by their meaning, she didn't pursue it; instead, she smiled and poured more wine into his diminishing glass. 'What _were_ your usual pursuits?' she asked. 'You hardly mention your own life, it's always about me.'

'My teaching duties leave little time for leisure, but lately I have been neglecting them,' he replied, realising that his social life consisted of nothing more exciting than the occasional trip into Hogsmeade and an even less frequent visit to Diagon Alley.

He watched as she traced a finger around the rim of her glass. She furrowed her brow a little as she did when she wanted to say something tentative. With sudden deliberation, she took a large swig from the glass and glanced up at him.

'No wife or girlfriend to go home to?' she asked with affected nonchalance. Severus smiled, wondering if she had forgotten their train journey conversation when he had spoken about Lily, or whether she merely looked for confirmation.

'No,' he replied. 'My work has always come first.'

She reacted with a smile which, if he had dared to allow himself a little self-indulgence, he could have sworn seemed joyful at his reply. 'You're a dedicated teacher, Severus. I'm not sure I could be as devoted to my work.'

'Perhaps I didn't choose dedication.'

She looked puzzled. 'You mean you had it thrust upon you?'

'In a manner of speaking.' How little she knew of him, and how wonderful it felt not to be condemned as either the villain or the reluctant hero. Yet there was still a part of him that wanted her to know everything, so that he _could_ be accurately judged. The most gratifying thing of all would be for her to know it all and care for him anyway. 'We are defined by the choices we make.'

'Yes, I suppose we are.'

'I made some terrible ones in my younger days, which I came to regret.'

'Didn't we all?' she replied, her smile never wavering.

'I'm not talking of bad career choices, or defying parents.' He paused to consider the prudence of continuing in this vein; he hadn't intended to let the conversation become so introspective. He had envisaged light-hearted banter and get-to-know-you chats—he wanted to make her laugh, not provoke her to counsel him. But perhaps flippancy really was beyond his powers.

'Well, if we are defined by the choices we make, I like how you turned out,' she replied. 'So I won't ask what they were, but I can't wish them away because without them you wouldn't be here with me.' She looked directly at him and sighed. 'And your regrets may never go away, but the fact that you have them makes you worth more than all the goody-two-shoes who never dared to put a foot wrong, or all those people who stand by their mistakes. I like you, regrets and all.'

'Then I shall always try to see it from the perspective of having the sense never to have been a goody-two-shoes,' he replied.

'Let's drink to that,' said Rachael, tapping his glass with hers.

They chatted some more about Rachael's life, and he managed to deflect most of her questions about his history. He contemplated the fact that this was their last week together, perhaps they only had a few days left before she would be visited by Aurors, Stunned for her own protection, and taken to St Mungo's. There was still a chance that her memories would return by themselves given more time, but Potter and the others were too impatient to wait. Yet he worried that the shock of the spell reversal may be damaging to her emotional state. Once Lucius Malfoy performed the Finite spell, the sudden realisation of the years she had lost, the friendships she had missed out on could do so much more damage than recalling the events herself. Perhaps it would jeopardise the little time he had left to savour her company, but he felt he owed it to her to at least try to encourage her memories to return by themselves.

The meal had been cleared away and they had just ordered a second bottle of wine. Severus decided to broach the subject she seemed least anxious to talk about.

'I think you are ready to discuss the others,' he said. She had been reading the desert menu aloud and trying to tempt him to share a tarte tatin with her. His statement stopped her mid-sentence, but she kept her eyes fixed on the menu.

'Others?' she replied.

'The other... magical people. It's time I told you about the world they inhabit and... '

'I told you, I'm not interested in _them_. I have _you_.' Her smile was gone now, but still she studied the red mock-leather dessert menu, held tightly in her grip.

'There may come a time when you need more than that... more than me,' he persisted.

She looked up. 'Why? Are you going away?' He hated himself for enjoying the panic in her tone and the fear in her eyes.

'No, of course not.'

She visibly relaxed. 'Well then, why discuss the... _others_?'

'Because one day, curiosity will get the better of you.' He paused as the waitress came to bring their wine, and shook his head as she offered to pour it for them. 'It is only natural that you will want to find out more about our kind.'

'Are you trying to get rid of me, is that it? Are you bored of my limited abilities? I know they're nothing compared to yours, but I'll get better, I'm sure of it,' she implored.

'No! You misunderstand my meaning, Rachael. I have very much enjoyed sharing in the discovery of your magic. However, there is a whole world of possibilities—not just people, but magical schools, shops, homes, a hospital, even currency and a bank. There is a street we call Diagon Alley which is where most... '

He stopped in response to her stricken expression.

'Don't tell me anymore,' she begged. 'Please. You're wrong—I'm NOT ready for it. I find it very distressing.' She put down the menu and drained her glass of wine in three swallows.

'Very well,' he replied. So glad was he of her refusal that he dismissed his concerns which arose from the vehemence of her request for silence. 'We don't have to talk about it if you'd rather not.'

Rachael placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. 'Thank you.'

'Let's talk about something pleasanter,' he said. 'I have a gift for you.' He smiled at her look of relief and excitement.

'A gift? What is it?'

'I have found a location to practice Transfiguration; I will give it to you there.' 

The grounds of the local Parish Church were as still and silent as the graves they housed. It was the perfect place for a wizard and his apprentice witch to practice spells and charms undetected.

Severus told her to close her eyes as he placed the long slender box into her waiting outstretched hands. Her look of pure joy was worth the time he had spent researching her original wand, and worth the trip to Ollivander's shop in Diagon Alley. It was certainly worth the fifteen Galleons it had cost to purchase it.

He hadn't anticipated such a demonstrative reaction, and with her arms tightly wound around his neck and her fragrance assaulting his senses, he wasn't sure how long he could withstand it before his arms responded—before they wrapped around her waist and held her to him. Severus was so used to the pervasive sense of rejection that he was unprepared for the blood-rush of true appreciation. And though her actions came from a place of gratitude and an acknowledgement of the possibility that the gift of the wand symbolised, he absorbed the heady sensation of her heartfelt thanks, nevertheless.

There was a chilly sense of loss when she loosened her hold and took a cautious step backwards—her awkward smile alerting them both to the lost moment; her stammering apology hammering it home. This was the sort of moment Madam Rosmerta had urged him to seize. But even if he'd had the guts to respond to Rachael's embrace, what good could it do either of them now?

Rachael diffused their mutual embarrassment by turning her attention to the wand. She performed some of the spells they had been working on, and was delighted with the results.

'It feels different,' she said. 'Like it doesn't mind in the least doing what I tell it to. Whereas yours seemed always to want to get back to you.'

'I'm glad,' Severus replied. 'Choosing a wand for someone else is never ideal. The wand should choose the witch; but I discussed your strengths, physical attributes, and character with the wandmaker and he suggested this wand as a possible substitute.'

He omitted to tell her that he had managed to procure the remnants of her damaged wand from a Hogwarts vault, or that he had taken it to Mr Ollivander who had recognised it immediately as Hermione Granger's.

Rachael turned out to be surprisingly good at Transfiguration; she turned a fallen oak branch into a candelabrum which she then lit and placed on a nearby bench. Severus couldn't remember teaching her to do Incendio – she really was learning fast.

He contemplated cancelling everything the next day so that he could suggest they make a full day of it. But his runespoor egg supplier had contacted him earlier that morning and the meeting with him either happened between the hours of twelve and two the following day or it didn't happen for another six years. He couldn't afford to be so spontaneous, and besides, he would see her in the evening.

They still had a few days left before the inevitable.

XOXOXO

French class was cancelled when Madam Saunders did not turn up to teach it. Severus and the rest of the class waited for the requisite fifteen minutes, then left. He told himself that it was too early for alarm: Potter had mentioned Friday at the earliest for Malfoy's release. Besides which, someone would surely have informed him first—he had made it quite clear that _he_ should be the one to bring her in.

When he discovered that she was not at home either, his concern increased. He returned to the college and asked after her. The middle-aged woman on the reception desk told him that Miss Saunders, the French teacher was not available, nor had she let her colleagues know that she would not be able to take her usual class. Severus's anxiety increased. Her failure to attend and her absence from home could only mean one thing: Rachael had been taken early. Severus's fury almost outweighed his panic as he made his way back to Hogwarts in order to seek out Minerva for an explanation.

To his disappointment, the headmistress was not in her office. He tried the hospital wing to see if Madam Pomfrey had any knowledge of her whereabouts, but she informed him that the headmistress had not been seen since lunch time. Madam Pince was also of no help and neither was Professor Flitwick or Aurora Sinistra, both of whom he passed in the corridor. An eavesdropping portrait, however, had more news. Sir Francis Periwinkle had been visiting his friend, Lady Elizabeth Misseldon, whose portrait hung in the dungeons; Sir Francis had seen the headmistress only minutes previously, on a mission to find her deputy-head. Severus lost no time. He hurried to the dungeons, passing no one as he made his way down the steep spiral stone steps which led into the bowels of the castle. The wall sconces flared brightly as he passed them, lighting the way along the dank and gloomy passages he knew so well. As he neared the door to his office, he heard the echo of familiar footsteps coming from an adjacent passageway. He stopped and waited as they grew louder and near enough for him to see that Professor McGonagall was hurrying towards him. Her look of trepidation did nothing to quench his fears.

'Severus! There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you.'

'I have been trying to find you, too, Minerva,' Severus replied. He opened his office door with a wave of his wand and lit the room with another flick. 'What do you know of Miss Granger? I have reason to believe that wheels have already been set in motion.'

'Everything happened so suddenly,' Minerva explained, sitting down on a chair usually reserved for students.

His heart pounded with dread. 'Potter intimated that nothing would happen until Friday at the very earliest.'

'Harry contacted me this morning to say that things had been finalised—permission papers signed and the date set for today. I tried to find you. Where have you been?'

Severus groaned. 'I told you, Minerva—I had to go to Ireland to meet with Reginald Tunstall.'

'Who?'

'The traveller who supplies me with the rarer of my potion's ingredients. He had a batch of runespoor eggs. I did tell you.'

Minerva sighed and nodded. 'Yes, of course. I had forgotten in all the excitement.'

Severus took a seat at his desk and laid his wand carefully on the table in front of him. 'She has been taken then?'

The headmistress nodded. 'Yes. Two Aurors were deployed at 11a.m. As far as I know, everything went according to plan. She was successfully apprehended from her home, and we are reassured that she suffered no distress.' She ignored Severus's contemptuous snort. 'She was taken to a private room on the Janus Thickey ward at St Mungo's.'

'And Lucius Malfoy?'

'He was brought under heavy Auror guard from Azkaban and also taken to St Mungo's, where I hope he has been able to put an end to his spell. He was to be escorted back to Azkaban by 1p.m.—those were the terms of his release.'

Severus stood up in agitation. 'This is intolerable!' he exclaimed, pacing the room. 'When did you last speak to Potter? Surely there must be some news by now?'

Professor McGonagall looked up at Severus with surprise. 'You seem particularly anxious, Severus.'

He was aware of the directness of her suspicious gaze, but he was beyond caring by this point. Either Lucius's reversal spell had worked, or it had not. If all had gone to plan, _his_ Rachael would be gone—a mere memory, another lost opportunity too painful to dwell upon. If something had gone wrong—if Lucius had been unable or unwilling to perform a simple Finite spell—then both Rachael and the Hermione who they had known could be lost forever.

He folded his arms and turned to face her. 'Of course, I'm anxious. So much time and effort has been put into this project. There is a great deal of satisfaction to be gained from seeing something come to fruition.'

'I see,' Minerva replied softly. Her brow furrowed as she considered her deputy. 'If I didn't know you better, I would have suspected that there was more to it than that.'

'What is _that_ supposed to mean?'

'Well,' she replied carefully, 'it almost seemed as if you had come to care for Hermione.'

'Care for Hermione Granger?' he spat. 'She was my student, and twenty years my junior. How could you possibly think I might _feel_ something for her?'

Minerva observed him closely and waited for him to stop pacing before she answered. 'I didn't suggest you had feelings for her; I only said that you seemed to _care_. I meant it in the way that I care.' He felt her penetrating gaze and knew he had given himself away. 'Is there something you want to tell me, Severus?'

He frowned at her and shook his head. 'No, Minerva! You are getting ahead of yourself. I merely wish to know the outcome of our efforts. I would have thought that the headmistress of Hogwarts would have some influence.'

'I'm afraid my influence has gone as far as it can,' she replied.

'Have you contacted the Healer in charge of her care?'

'I have been told to wait for word,' she replied. Her tone bristled as if he were accusing her of neglect. 'And that is what I am doing. We will just have to be patient. I'm sure Harry will let us know soon enough.'

'Would it take a moment for him to send a Patronus?' Severus fumed. 'As I recall, he was quick enough to demonstrate his prowess at conjuring one when he was a student.'

'He was faced with a pack of Dementors, Severus! What would you have him do, allow his soul to be ripped out just in case it seemed like he was showing off? Do be reasonable!'

Severus scowled in the face of what he knew to be her perfectly rational response. He didn't feel like being reasonable; he felt like kicking furniture, smashing his neatly-lined potions bottles to the floor, and making childish accusations about Harry Potter.

'Well, I have no intention of sitting here waiting for Potter's generosity,' he pronounced. 'I am going to St Mungo's to find out for myself.'

Minerva sighed. 'Very well, Severus. Do what you must. But I wish to be informed as soon as possible. I will be in my office.'

They had got no further than the Great Hall before Professor Flitwick appeared from the main door and ran towards them as fast as his tiny legs would carry him. 'Harry Potter is here to see you, Minerva.'

'Finally!' replied Professor McGonagall. 'Is he in my office?'

'No, he's waiting in the courtyard. I believe he has news of today's events.'

Without waiting for Professor McGonagall to reply, Severus swept past Filius Flitwick and headed towards the main entrance which led to the courtyard beyond. Harry Potter was sitting on a stone wall with his back to the castle—his hunched shoulders a tell-tale sign that all was not well.

'Potter!' Severus called out as he approached—the headmistress and Filius Flitwick not far behind. 'How good of you pay us a visit.'

Harry turned around at the sound of Severus's irate voice. 'It's been a long day,' he said wearily. 'A lot of forms to file.'

'Well, now you've got on top of your paperwork, perhaps you would care to enlighten us?' Severus replied, feeling even more animosity towards the son of James than the time he had caught him rifling through his memories in the Pensieve. 'How was the reunion? Was she glad to be back amongst her old... friends?'

'Harry?' Professor McGonagall had finally caught up. 'What's going on? We've been waiting anxiously for news.'

'I'm sorry, Professor,' Harry replied. 'I should have come earlier but... it's not good news.'

Minerva gasped. 'Not good news? You mean... Lucius wasn't able to reverse his spell?'

Severus remained silent, unable to trust himself to speak or react until he had heard all Harry had to say.

'He performed the spell well enough. At least, he seemed to. Afterwards, she just collapsed unconscious. The Healer said it was normal; she'd need to sleep off the effects, but that when she awoke, she would remember everything.'

'And I take it she has woken?' Minerva asked.

Harry nodded. 'But when she woke...'

'When she woke... WHAT?' Severus demanded to know.

'She became hysterical. She didn't know anyone or recognise her surroundings. She wouldn't listen to reason; she got upset when she saw the Healer's wand. She actually cried and demanded to be taken home when she was asked if she understood that she was a witch.' Harry paused seemingly to gather the courage to continue. 'It seems that she has regressed. She showed no sign at all of accepting the idea of magic. If anything, she was afraid of it.' He kicked at a stone in his path. 'The Healer thought to calm her by mentioning a familiar name—he asked if she remembered you, Professor Snape. But... she just wanted to know what her student had to do with anything. In the end, she had to be sedated again. They have Obliviated her and returned her home.'

Harry looked up at his three former professors. 'It's over.'

Severus's fury could no longer be contained. 'You fool! She was progressing admirably. She would have remembered in her own time. But Potter knows best! You have abducted her and terrified her and all for nothing. The shock has no doubt caused a permanent relapse! IDIOT! And now it is likely too late. Her mind will never allow itself to be distressed again; she will close herself off to any concept of magic. The damage is now irreparable.'

Harry looked stricken. 'You can't be more upset than we are,' he said, attempting to defend himself. 'We thought it was the best option—perhaps the only option. We just wanted her back.'

'Well, that's unfortunate, Potter, because it is doubtful that you will ever have her back now,' Severus snarled.

Minerva reached out a reassuring hand and squeezed Harry's shoulder. She gave Severus a reproachful look. 'Severus, we're all upset, but you can hardly heap all the blame onto Harry; he did what we all thought was best, and he had no control over Malfoy's release.'

Severus glared back at her. 'You will excuse me, Minerva, but I have no stomach for your consolatory heart-to-heart.'

Without waiting for a reply he turned his back on the startled trio and marched off into the black night, heedless of Professor McGonagall's calls for him to return. 

The days that followed were vague and distorted. Severus could not bring himself to return to the Muggle world to see the damage for himself—the idea was too distressing. He could not stomach the thought of seeing her again when her only knowledge of him now was as her irritating student. The tentative friendship they had formed was finished.

He did not waver from his usual routine—he rose from his bed, washed and dressed, attended meals in the Great Hall, turned up for his usual classes, marked homework assignments, and gave answers to any questions asked of him. He was conscious of the passing of time: the sun set in the west and climbed again in the east just as it always had. He was aware of the students who attended his classes—the dim-witted ones, and the able—but none received so much as a deducted House-point or a sharp reproach, let alone an acknowledgment of success. He could find no pursuit which held any appeal, not even the systematic harassment of students.

He took to spending any free time he had gathering potions ingredients from the Forbidden Forest—at least, that was the official purpose for his frequent absence from the castle—but more often than not he would return empty handed. The distant castle grounds were by far the best place to while away his time—out there, he could be sure of avoiding concerned colleagues and a well-meaning headmistress—out there, he could indulge himself in self-reproach and blame. Severus was under no illusion that the last few months had wrought from him nothing more than the behaviour of a hormonal teenage boy. In Muggle terms he was middle-aged. He had fought a war and survived certain death. He had spent a life-time atoning for the mistake which had led to the death of the woman he loved. He had endured servitude, suffered loneliness, sacrificed his reputation, and lived a life of denial; yet for all his hardships and exertions, he seemed to have learned nothing: it seemed that he was unable to spend time in the presence of a pretty young woman without losing his head. Even if he _hadn't_ been deluding himself—even if Rachael _had_ felt something for him—as he had begun to hope—there could never have been a future for them. It always came back to her memories. To care for him, she must be ignorant of all that he had been and of all that he was; it would be a false attachment, of no more significance than the effects of a love potion. Most of his anger, however, came from the realisation that part of him had wanted her to return to the wizarding world—wanted her to remember the real Severus Snape. He had foolishly allowed himself to put faith in the chance that she might care for him regardless.

It was almost a week since the failed attempt to reintegrate Rachael back into the wizarding world and restore Hermione Granger to her former glory. Severus was residing over his fifth-year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw classes attempts to brew Strengthening Solution. He recalled setting the same task for the golden trio when they were also in their fifth year. Potter had made a mess of it, of course, but Miss Granger's results had been more than acceptable—as usual, he had ignored her achievement and awarded points for Draco Malfoy's feeble efforts. His thoughts naturally took him to Rachael, and he wondered how she was faring after her ordeal. Would she be just as she was before he had turned up in her French class: without magic, but content enough? She would never miss what she had not known; he had been forced to accept that the shock of her encounter with the magical world would have an impact on her sub-conscious mind: it would never allow her to embrace the fantastical and bizarre again.

He watched one of his students as the boy used his wand to Summon a book from the far side of the room. Magic, for him, was second nature—he was a pure-blood; he would never have known the excitement and wonder of discovering incredible and terrifying powers which must be kept secret from the world. Rachael had felt it, and he had been lucky enough to be part of her pleasure, to know her delight and watch her dawning abilities.

Since Harry Potter had revealed the failure of the mission, the possibility that she may not have completely suppressed her magical powers had never occurred to him. His natural cynicism had not allowed any chink of hope to worm its way in. False hope was nothing more than a cankerous infection, painful and debilitating as it prevents the wound from healing. And so, he tried to ignore the first questioning kernel as it dared to prod at his uncertainty and, even worse, his hope. He told himself that he was delusional, desperate, and pathetic. But the thought would not go away. The hopeful seed had planted itself and it was beginning to grow. Desire fed it, and a yearning to see her again gave it yet more nourishment; it flourished steadily over the course of the next few days. By the end of the week it had become a firmly established thought:

What if Rachael had _not_ suppressed her magic? 


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Thirteen**

Snape opened the door to the French classroom with as much trepidation as a first-year Muggle-born attending her first Potion's class. He had tried to talk himself out of turning up for one last French class, but if he had dared to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he had not tried very hard. Calling into the Three Broomsticks for a small glass of Dutch courage was the final push he had needed. Madam Rosmerta had brow-beaten him into confessing his foolish intention, and she had all but marched him to the French class herself—as he knew she would: it had required very little persuasion to make up his mind once and for all. A final goodbye was what he called it, but in truth, he wanted to see for himself if there was any flicker of recognition beyond the fact that he was her student. The Healer's Obliviate spell should have annihilated every scrap of information pertaining to magic, including Severus Snape.

The class turned around in response to the sound of the door opening, but soon lost interest when they recognised their strange classmate.

Rachael's hair was tied back in the same style as he remembered when he had first seen her at the train station. She wore a green cotton dress edged with cream lace and her long sleeves were pushed up to the elbows as was her habit when she meant business. It had been less than a week, but he had missed her smile.

'Ah! Mr Snape,' she said. 'Good of you to join us.'

'Bonsoir, Madam,' he replied smoothly, walking to the front of the classroom and taking his usual seat. 'I apologise for my late arrival.'

He was aware of the silence in the room and that she watched him diligently until he was seated.

'Well, you're here now. Do you have the homework I set you? We were just going through it.'

'Je l'ai laissé dans le train,' he replied in perfect French.

Madam Saunders raised her eyebrows. 'Ton Français s'améliore mais pas ton attitude. You will need to stay behind, Mr Snape, while I go through the basics of what you have missed.'

Her bright and welcoming smile as he had entered the classroom was the only sign of remembrance he observed. As the lesson continued, he dismissed its significance as nothing more than the deception of his own mind which desired a gesture of hope and turned the innocuous act of a smile into something more meaningful. But it was just a smile after all. During the rest of the class, she offered him no more and spoke to him only out of necessity—neither singling him out, nor avoiding him.

He was not sorry that he had made the decision to see her for one final time; it was gratifying to see that she had been returned unharmed and was continuing with her life just as before. She would no doubt throw herself back into her old activities, return to her friends and meet some adequately suitable Muggle man to marry. Their children may turn out to be magical. Some day he may be teaching potions to the offspring of Hermione Granger. Would she remember her magic then?

The students filed out at the end of the lesson, and Snape wished he could go with them. He was aware that a one-to-one meeting would be more gruelling than just being a silent participant in her class. As the moment approached, he knew he couldn't face the proximity of her standing by his side and going through the work he had missed. He couldn't bear to inhale her fragrance or feel the inadvertent brush of her arm against his. And what if she leaned too close and he felt the tingle of her hair against his face? It would be better to annihilate the chance of any accidental contact—he didn't want to know what a caress would feel like; the awareness of its sweetness would be too painful. It would be easier just to tell her he would not be able to attend any more of her classes—she would likely be relieved to hear the news that her least favourite student was leaving for good.

Her expression as she watched him from her seat was disconcerting. He did not stir from his own, unwilling to close the gap between them, until finally she made a move and walked around her desk. She leaned against it, gripping the French text book in both hands as if she was afraid of dropping it. He waited for her to speak, but it seemed as if she was doing the same—the two of them locked in a silent battle of suspension. He tried to analyse her expression; it seemed— _angry_ wasn't the right word, but she appeared more moved than a teacher should be towards a student who has merely skipped a few lessons.

She was the first to cave. 'I thought you weren't going to come,' she breathed.

Snape became acutely conscious of his own movements and breaths. He tried not to meet her eye as he replied. 'I have paid for the full course, as I explained. However, I'm afraid this will be my last class. Circumstances... that is... I am unable to continue.'

'But you've paid,' she replied.

'I won't be asking for a refund.'

Rachael stared at him until he felt unable to look away any longer. 'We were making such good progress.'

'And I am grateful for all you have taught me, but I'm afraid it can't be helped,' he replied.

She turned her back to him suddenly and slammed the heavy book down on the desk top so that the loud thud reverberated around the room.

She turned back to face him, her face showing all the signs of fury and exasperation. 'Merlin! I could slap Harry bloody Potter sometimes!' she yelled. 'I know he meant well, but why can't he just leave things alone? We were doing okay, weren't we?'

Snape stared at her incredulously. It was Rachael's form he was looking at: her face, her hair, her voice, but the words she spoke, the sentiment and the meaning coming from her lips could not be comprehended. This was not Rachael, the woman who was just discovering her powers, nor was it Rachael, the fledgling witch who had been admitted to St Mungo's and found to be a hopeless case.

This was Hermione Granger.

Snape took some moments to process her words: her understanding of the wizarding world, her knowledge of Potter—and even more significantly, her annoyance with _them_.

'They Obliviated you!' he said when he finally found the power of speech.

'They tried,' she scoffed. 'But that Healer was pathetic. I don't think his heart was in it to be honest.'

He spoke carefully. 'Potter told me that Malfoy was unable to perform Finite Obliviate.'

Hermione sighed. 'Oh, Lucius Malfoy was in a terrible state. I almost felt sorry for him. But even if he _had_ performed it well enough, it would have made no difference.'

Snape felt as if his brain was about to explode with the effort of making sense of this new turn of events. He had expected her to be lost: powerless, impotent and clueless, but instead, it seemed that _she_ had been the one with all the secrets.

'An explanation please,' he demanded.

Hermione had the grace to look at him with some degree of discomfort. 'Lucius Malfoy didn't wipe my memory in the first place.'

'Not possible. Draco confessed. He gave evidence to the Wizengamot.'

Hermione smiled. 'He kept his word then.'

'His word?'

She nodded. 'Lucius didn't do it. Draco did.'

Snape was beginning to wonder if this was some elaborate dream he was caught up in. He had been taking more Sleep Potion than usual lately. But he could never have dreamed the look in her eyes—that compelling mixture of uncertainty, anticipation and determination. Yet, little made sense. If Lucius had not been able to reverse the spell, why was Hermione Granger standing before him as if the last ten years had been a mere blip?

He tried to organise her words into some semblance of logic. 'Draco?'

Hermione paused as if deciding how to proceed. 'I told him he owed me... well, all of us: Harry and Ron, too. We saved him from the Fiendfyre—he would have been dead. Life debt and all that.'

Realisation hit him like a Stunner to the chest. 'You _wanted_ your memories to be altered?'

Hermione walked towards the window and looked through the half-closed blinds. 'I'd had enough,' she said softly. 'The carnage! The carnage after the battle. I walked around the castle and all I could see was death. Friends, teachers, students... so many dead. And I wanted to get away from it all.' She sighed and kept her eyes focused on the outside world, gathering her thoughts as if she was preparing a confession for herself alone. 'I wandered off just to think and get some breathing space. I wanted somewhere that felt safe and happy, so I walked down to Hagrid's hut. That's when I saw the Malfoys. I was in a bit of a state—probably not thinking too clearly—I thought they were going to destroy that too. And something snapped. I thought: no more destruction. I didn't care anymore so I just hurtled off after them.'

'And you found that they were about to use a Portkey!'

Hermione turned to look at him. 'You know?'

'We know. Once Lucius was put on trial, Draco told us of the events of the evening.'

'Is that how you came to find me?'

Snape nodded. 'Until then, you were believed to be dead in the explosion along with the Malfoys. No one questioned it. Part of your wand was found, and that was perceived as clear evidence.'

Hermione walked back to her desk and took out her wand from her bag—his gift to her. 'I never wanted to be found. Draco Disapparated me to some Muggle town in France, and I thought, why not just stay here? It seemed so peaceful and free from all the horror of our world. Suddenly, I knew what I wanted: not to be a witch any more. I told Draco that I didn't want to be taken to the French wizarding society as they had planned, to be left among our kind and taken back to Hogwarts. I told him to alter my memories and leave me with the Muggles. He was always good at Charms.'

Snape stood up and paced the room, trying to arrange his thoughts and grasp the significance of her account. 'Then why did Draco tell us that Lucius had done it?'

Hermione tightened her hold on her wand as if it gave her comfort. She shrugged. 'He had made me a promise,' she said, 'not to give me away. But that was before Lucius was stupid enough to get caught. Perhaps it was an attempt, on Draco's part, to keep his promise to me and to help his father: I imagine there would be more sympathy towards Lucius at his trial if it was discovered that he had bothered to Obliviate me and leave me somewhere safe. And if everyone believed Lucius was the one who altered my memories, there would be no question of me being found and restored: Lucius in Azkaban couldn't do it, or so I thought. It gave me more time. I had intended to stay in France—I used to holiday there with my parents as a child. If I _had_ stayed there, perhaps I would never have been found. Of course, Draco forgot how persistent Harry and Ron are.'

'Then you never wanted to return to the wizarding world?'

'I was happy enough.'

'Until I came along!'

She looked at him directly for the first time since her narrative. 'For a while. But... something was always missing. As soon as you walked into my class, it felt like _you_ were the missing part. Not that I could have put that into words then.' She turned her attention to her wand again, several of those soft tendrils concealing her face. 'You triggered my magic. It seems inconceivable that I was scared of it at first. But you were there to guide me.'

Snape watched the woman before him and tried to conceive the possibility that Hermione Granger had chosen to give up her magic and live as a Muggle rather than remain with her friends. She seemed to guess his thoughts as she smiled at him softly.

'I was desperate,' she said. 'I couldn't bear it all anymore and I knew what was to come—the turmoil and anguish of rebuilding and coming to terms with everything. The aftermath, the recriminations – it still wasn't over just because Voldemort was dead. Harry had revealed your true loyalties, and the realisation of what _you_ had sacrificed... ' She looked away unable to complete her thought out loud. 'And after all that, after all you did, you were dead...' It seemed as if her own words had distressed her, because she looked up again with a start and repeated, 'You were dead!'

'So were you,' he said, relieved to know that he did not have to have a conversation with her in which he must once again explain his reasons for killing Dumbledore and betraying them all.

'Touché,' she replied. 'But how did you—survive?'

'Another story. We are talking about you. There are many things which still make no sense to me. Why did you deceive the Healer in St Mungo's and your friends?'

Hermione's face flushed, and once more she seemed to be battling with the question of what to say and how much to reveal. She chose to deflect his question by changing the subject. 'When you didn't turn up for the last two French classes, I thought... '

'Potter told me that you had regressed, forgotten your magic again. I took that to mean an end to all of this. I believed there was no chance of you regaining your powers again.'

'You were going to leave me?' She replied, her voice stricken with anxiety.

His heart hammered in his chest. 'I needed to consider what to do next. My appearance may have been upsetting for you.'

She took a step towards him then changed her mind and stopped. 'You not being here was upsetting.'

Snape could only stare at her in surprise. She seemed so agitated—disconcerted—her fingers would not be still as she restlessly threaded her wand through them. She didn't seem to know what to do with her gaze: direct it at him, her hands, the floor? He supposed he should make some suitable reply, something that reflected how exultant her words made him feel, but he could think of nothing appropriate.

Hermione seemed to draw some courage from somewhere as she took a step closer and continued. 'I thought I'd messed up. You didn't come and I thought, what if he never comes, what will I do?'

The unexpected sound of a man whistling and his accompanying footsteps was suddenly heard from the corridor beyond the classroom. Without a moment's hesitation, Hermione pointed her wand at the door and cast a string of hasty Repellent Charms to enable their privacy.

Snape raised his eyebrows. 'You really are a fast learner, Hermione.'

'It came back to me really quickly once my memory returned in full. We used those Charms a lot when we were on the run.'

When it dawned on him that she had regained her memory well before she had let on, he questioned her on the timing of her recovery.

'By the lake. When you cast Geminio on the leaves—so beautifully by the way,' she replied, smiling fondly at the memory.

At once, he realised that all their subsequent get-togethers had been a charade. Their after-class meetings, his patient explanation of the nature of magic, his demonstrations, gentle encouragement—even the moment when he had told her she was a witch—all of it was pretence. She had already known. The sudden insight caused a maelstrom of reactions, though he showed little of his turmoil as he watched her with increasing uncertainty. He felt some betrayal at her deception and disappointment at her pretext, which naturally led to mistrust of her intentions. Yet what of those? What of her intentions? What could have possibly prompted her to concoct an elaborate ruse of deceit, feigned knowledge, pretence at ignorance, and to willingly spend time with him as her teacher? Perhaps it was hope he should feel, not disillusionment.

'And you never thought to mention it?' he asked in the measured tone he used when he felt his emotions too overwhelming to be allowed a voice.

Hermione sank into a nearby chair, leaning her elbows onto the table. 'You would have taken me back to them,' she murmured. 'That's why you were here. I realised that the morning after the lake when my memories all came tumbling back. You were the one sent to get me. I couldn't figure out why it was you and not Harry or Ron—and I couldn't understand why I wasn't just dragged off to St Mungo's straight away. I know now, of course,' she added, looking up at him attentively, like a witness on the stand. 'The softly, softly approach—the danger of it all going wrong and me turning into some head case.'

He walked closer to her and stared down at the waves of hair now fallen from their clasp and tumbling down in a coppery shroud around her neck and shoulders. He very much wanted to reach out a hand to brush the hair from her face, but he contented himself with observation and folded his arms stoically. 'Would going back have been so terrible? Surely you must have missed your friends?'

Hermione looked up at him and gave him a rueful smile. 'But I would have been nothing more than Hermione Granger, annoying Gryffindor and irritating know-it-all, to you.'

The feeling that this whole situation could not be genuine occurred to him again. She was speaking as if her actions—her deceit and manipulation—had been for the sole purpose of remaining in his company and for his approval only. It seemed too great a leap for the realisation that now seemed so obvious: all along, they had both wanted the same thing.

She continued her explanation. 'I love Harry and Ron and all the Weasleys. We have meant so much to each other. But that life is over. They have moved on. Harry is married now. There was a time when I thought Ron and I would be together, but it was just teenage stuff—nothing more. I expect he's moved on too. I liked being Rachael Saunders, trainee witch. I don't want to go back; I want to stay here.' She sighed as if the inevitable must now be said regardless of the consequences. 'With you.'

Snape could see that expression in her eyes again: doubt and hope and resolution looked him squarely in the face and it was all he could do to refrain from lowering his head to kiss the lips which had spoken words he could never have dared to hope for. Yet still he could not be certain of her intentions. Perhaps it was only magic she coveted, and his ability to develop her skills.

'You don't need a teacher, Hermione.'

Hermione stood up. They were only feet apart now. Too close. He could smell her again, and it was intoxicating. 'I know,' she whispered. 'But does that mean you and I can't still be friends? I'd rather give up my magic again than lose you.'

His mind had finally allowed reason to depart. Had she just told him that she didn't care about her life, her friends, or her magic—only his friendship? It seemed such a short time ago that he could never have contemplated being anything to Hermione Granger but a teacher of potions, ruthless detractor, or undercover reconnaissance. Yet now, here he was, feeling disappointed that it was only friendship on offer. How quickly the receptive mind can give flight to fantasies of the most extraordinary imaginings. Over the past months he had come to notice her smile, her fragrance, the way she walked, flicked her hair, laughed, and scowled. He had noticed the way her eyes blinked rapidly when she was suppressing an emotion, the turn of her wrist when she flicked her wand, the ever-so-slightly lob-sided grin when he made her laugh, and way her hair fell into her eyes when she was engrossed in a book. He had thought of all those things when he was not with her and found pleasure in them when he was. If she wanted his friendship, it was hers.

 _Seize the day, Severus._ Rosmerta's words suddenly came to the forefront of his mind as if she was standing beside him and whispering them in his ear.

Snape was not an eloquent man when it came to confessions of love or veneration. He could never verbalise how much she had come to mean to him in so short a time. If he couldn't say the words out loud, then he must articulate his feelings in some other way. He hardly recognised his actions as his own as he stepped forward and closed the gap to mere inches. He half expected her to step back—to be daunted by his proximity, but she remained perfectly still, tilting her head up to look at him, a look of grave expectancy in eyes the colour of chestnuts.

'Why would you think of giving up your magic for me?' His fingers had found their way to her hair. He pushed the fallen strands back from her face and breathed deeply when the expected recoil did not come. Instead, she half closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

'I lived without it once before; I could do it again. But not without you. I don't want that.'

He felt her hand over his, her warm breath on his jaw; it stirred a long suppressed craving for physical contact with another human being—the pleasurable feel of the touch of a woman, the heady sensation of flesh on flesh. Somehow they had moved even closer; the only thing to do now seemed to be to lower his head and touch her lips with his. The edges of reason began to disappear, driven out by the onslaught of desire. He could not at that moment say for sure if it was a fleeting lapse in sanity or a moment of clarity which forced him to act. He only knew that the moment of action between standing before her, watching her parted lips, to pressing against her and feeling her mouth with his, was so unclear that he could not be sure how it happened. She tasted of hope, faith, destiny and fulfilment, and he had never tasted anything so sweet in his life.

'If I had an ounce of integrity I'd tell you to run,' he said when their lips finally parted.

'Why would I do that?'

'I have no idea; I seem to have forgotten my scruples.' He kissed her again. 'Something about the enormous age difference and my obnoxious disposition,' he murmured, kissing the fleshy part of her palm as she played with his hair.

She reached up to kiss him again—softly at first, before playfully biting his lower lip. 'You _are_ obnoxious,' she agreed. 'But as you're such a surprisingly good kisser, I'm willing to overlook it.' She laughed at his furrowing brow. 'And it goes without saying that you're brave and clever and make me very happy.'

He buried his overly large nose into her hair as he had dreamed of doing on countless occasions. 'I suppose I'll have to call you Hermione now,' he said. 

Severus Snape had resigned himself quite willingly to the fact that Hermione Granger—the woman he now spent most of his days with and recently some of his nights—wanted nothing more to do with the wizarding world. At first, she was adamant that she would never return. He had been right all along though: curiosity and a craving to see her old friends eventually got the better of her. Within two months, she had taken her first trip back—a tearful, but joyful reunion with Harry, Ron, a host of Weasleys and Professor McGonagall. If they were surprised by the unlikely courtship of their lost friend and the wizard sent to fetch her, they kept it to themselves for the sake of peace-keeping and harmony. The proprietor of the Three Broomsticks, however, always reserved her best wine for her favourite customers and was the first to raise a toast on their return:

'To Severus and Hermione and their everlasting happiness.'


End file.
